Machine
by Blueberry-Valentine
Summary: I am eight years old the first time I decide that being human is a bore." L has never been quite normal.
1. Zero

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Death Note_._

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I am zero years old the first time I am dependent on a machine. I am premature, terrifyingly so: only 25 weeks, and with a single, seventeen year old Lucy Rosemary Durham as my mother. It is Halloween and Lucy is convinced that one of her friends has somehow played a trick on her when she goes into labor. Two minutes and eighteen seconds after she reaches the hospital, crying and screaming bloody murder, I enter the world, impossibly small and silent.

Lucy is poor, her parents haven't even noticed that she is pregnant, and she had never planned on keeping the baby. So while I am being fussed over, she sneaks out of the hospital and runs away from home. Three days later, at two in the morning, she stumbles into the middle of the road, nearly sweating alcohol, and is run over by a sleepy eyed truck driver.

But at the time, I don't know any of this. It is several days before I open my eyes, and by then, Lucy is long gone. The first thing I am conscious of is the buzzing machinery and the sterile, glowing white surroundings. The blue shape of a mask is staring down at me, but it disappears at once, almost before I can even process what color it is, calling what I will later assume were excited announcements that the mystery baby had opened his eyes. However, again, at the time, I am aware of nothing but the brightness of my environment and the soothing sound of the ventilator as it lulls me back to sleep.

Some of the first words that babies usually hear are "hi" and "mommy" and "daddy" and "bear" and their name and "I love you". I hear "preemie" and "anemic" and "persistent ductus arteriosus" and "antibiotics" and do not have a name and am loved by no one.

This second to last difference is a bit untrue, as the name on my birth certificate is L Lawliet, as pieced together from what Lucy gasped out after labor. But L Lawliet is not a proper name, and the doctor that wrote it down had not slept in nearly two days, so not even the nurses call me by it. The last difference is a bit of a stretch as well, as there are people who _care_ for me. But nurture from a tired, gossipy nurse or her older, kinder friend is a great deal less precious than the unconditional love of a mother or sibling.

I will admit, however, that this aforementioned friend has some potential.

"He's beautiful," she coos one evening, the sixth evening she has visited me in the past two weeks. The first visit was a coincidence, the second an unconscious desire, and the last four deliberate. She fondles the ebony fuzz lining my scalp with one well groomed, yet unpainted finger, and brushes her knuckle against my cheek. "Such lovely eyes." My newborn eyes may be lovely, but they are incredibly weak; they see nothing but a blur of her face, however she giggles, a carefree, accidental sound, which makes me certain that she is happy.

As infatuated with me as she is, I find it difficult to feel similar sentiments towards her. Though the warmth of her skin is pleasant, the fabric of her cotton top is scratchy, and the fine hairs on her arm tickle, and she has a peculiar fascination with touching my hair, and her incessant babble is high pitched and meaningless—sometimes I wonder if she is actually trying to communicate with me, or whether she is simply unable to think of me as anything more than a toy for her to hold—and nowhere near as relaxing as the ventilator, which knocks me out like I've taken a mountain of sleeping pills.

Consequently, when I am well enough to breathe properly on my own, I have perhaps one of the earliest cases of insomnia. I don't cry or fuss or wiggle miserably in the way that most cranky babies do; instead, I decide that it is all for the better, and take advantage of the extra time awake to utilize my slowly improving vision and investigate my surroundings.

My motherly figure enjoys taking me to the hospital playroom, and I enjoy attending, though our reasoning for such an affinity is worlds apart. She takes me so that I can bond with other infants, plopping me down beside other lumpy babies and chatting with their mothers. I go so that I can learn.

I stare at my feet against the bright blue backdrop of the foam arena, then at the feet squirming beside my calm ones, and catalogue their similarities and differences. I then peer at the lifeless feet of a nearby ragdoll, and decide that my feet are more similar to its, and that I am more similar to the ragdoll. I reach for it, and am rather aggravated when I find that my arms are too stubby to reach it. I then begin to suck at my thumb, and wonder whether it would be possible to fashion some sort of long grabbing device.

A nearby toddler with tubes running into her nose and arm smiles at me. She pushes the ragdoll to me and garbles something unintelligible. Most of the children here cannot speak properly, and I do not want to pick up their bad habits, so, as per usual, I avert my gaze and do not respond to her advances.

But she is persistent and wants to make friends, so she scoots closer and asks, "Dawl?" I don't know if this is a word of her own invention, or the correct term for such an object, but she articulates the word unusually clearly, so I turn my gaze to her curiously. "Dawl?" she repeats, pushing the limp figure further until it is in my reach. I ignore the toy in lieu of watching her mouth form the word and struggling to figure out how to translate this information to my own mouth and vocal chords. I don't want to begin attempting speech until I have completely figured it out, but it is extremely difficult to do so without trial and error. "Dawl?" she offers a third time, and I pay as close attention as possible.

Evidently, I have paid too close attention according to social standards, because the girl's mother suddenly swoops her daughter into her arms with a frantic instruction of "Leave the boy's doll alone!" and several unsettled looks in my direction. The girl is whining and my companion is apologizing hastily, but I am too absorbed in this new pronunciation to care much regarding my sudden rejection.

Warm, frantic arms fold me into a chest, and the hands that cradle me are shaking. The sensation is unpleasant, as I am so small that the vibrations make me tremble as well. I make a small displeased sound in the back of my throat, one of the few noises I make. I use this sound whenever I am particularly irritated, and it usually startles my companion into stopping whatever she is doing.

But this time the trembling only increases, and I am further unable to concentrate on the proper pronunciation for the word "doll." I consider spitting up on her shirt, as that usually makes her set me down, but I do not want to chance an opposite reaction, so I remain as still as possible under the circumstances and wait for the ride to be over.

She hammers at a door, which makes her heart similarly hammer at her chest and against my ear, yet her breathing stops altogether. I hear the door swing open, which restarts her heavy pattern of inhaling and exhaling. "Why, hello Marie. Can I help you?" a familiar voice inquires and I cringe into my companion's shirt.

I do not like this voice because it is not real. This woman doesn't look like a nurse, nor does she act like a nurse, yet she orders the nurses around like she has the authority to, even if she is not one. She doesn't look like a mother, nor does she act like a mother, yet she fondles other babies in front of the mothers to make them think that she can relate to them. She is nothing and everything all at the same time, and that is too paradoxical for me to even consider accepting.

My companion, however, has to accept her because she cares for me, and is desperate for information about me, and this woman claims to have that information. "Yes, please," she fumbles, shifting me to her other hip; I endure the movement in silence. "I think there's something wrong with him."

The woman sighs, and it is the sound of the hospital's automatic doors admitting a fatally injured patient. "Come in, please."

My companion gratefully accepts the invitation and takes a seat in one of the chairs at the woman's desk. Relaxing marginally, she frees me from her suffocating grasp, and lets me lounge against her arm and exercise my abdominals.

The woman sits down as well, keeping her back ramrod straight and her mouth delicately curved. "Would you like to tell me what's wrong?"

My companion thoughtfully brushes her fingertips through my feathery hair. "It's a bit difficult to explain, but I'm a bit concerned for his… Well. I know he's a bit too young—a great deal too young to even be worrying about this sort of thing, but do you know whether you can diagnose…mental…disabilities in children this young?"

The woman is quietly startled. "What would you constitute as a disability?"

Her fingers quicken, and the sensation changes from pleasant to uncomfortable. "Well, not quite a _disability_, but more of an illness."

"An illness," the woman repeats, and it pleases me to know that she is completely caught off guard.

I yank my head away from her touch, jabbing my fingers irritably into her side. She looks down in surprise at me, and then jerks her hand down onto the armrest. "I know he shouldn't be able to see very clearly right now, but the way he _looks _at things sometimes. It's downright frightening. actually. The other parents have noticed it too. They don't say anything, but they pull their children away, even the older ones, the toddlers. And he's always so _silent_. He never sleeps, but he doesn't even make normal sounds."

"That's perfectly normal," the woman assures her. "He's not even a year old yet."

"But he doesn't even _try _to talk!" My companion sounds near tears, and it is quite frustrating that I cannot discern why. "He doesn't babble and he doesn't whine and he doesn't even cry."

"Most people wish that their babies would be as quiet as yours."

"That's not the point."

"Marie." The woman's voice hardens in an attempt to calm my companion. "You've taken on a great deal being around this orphan so often. As admirable as it is, I have to wonder if the stress is getting to you. We would understand if you decided to make these visits more occasional."

My companion shakes her head surely. "I'm doing fine. I just want to make sure that he is too." She smiles sheepishly. "I've grown quite fond of him."

"It's absolutely normal for a motherly figure such as yourself to imagine that their child is not developing properly, but, I assure you, he's simply a very unique child. All his charts show that he is doing well—doing fantastic, in fact. I'm happy to run some tests, if you feel it necessary to put him through all that…"

"Oh, no! Of course not!" My companion immediately backtracks at the concept of my being in any unnecessary discomfort. "If you say he's normal, then I'm sure you're right."

The woman smiles a peculiar, placating smile. "Wonderful." She leans forward in her chair, releasing an exceptional squeak that hurts my ears, and entwines her fingers in front of her. "Now that we're on the subject, I'd like to speak to you regarding his future."

"What about it?" she asks, almost coos, gazing at me warmly and fondling my hair once more.

"This arrangement at the hospital can only be temporary, and we are going to have to begin searching for a more permanent home." My companion's caresses pause and her brows furrow. "The standard course of action would be to place him in the foster care system until adoptive parents could be found."

"You mean, you're…but… Would I still be able to see him?"

"That would be up to his foster parents, but certainly not as often."

"Oh." She frowns, conflict wavering in the lines at her forehead. "Would it be possible for….me to be his foster parent?"

"There are certain qualifications that you must meet, as well as training, but it's not out of the question."

"And after that, I could adopt him?"

The woman purses her lips in concern. "That is a decision you should consider carefully, but, again, it is plausible."

My companion smiles in relief. "Could I begin applying for being a foster parent now?"

The woman gives a wavering smile. "Of course."

Now that all the emotions have settled down, this conversation is quite boring, and I decide that I will slip in a few minutes of sleep now so I can save consciousness for a more important time.

After roughly half an hour, my companion stands up and jars me from my slumber, making me yawn and blink the drowsiness from my eyes. She cradles me against her chest as we walk back to my room, her watch ticking gently in my ear. I reach a hand up to her wrist, pulling at the cool metal band, and after enough prodding, she hands it to me. I spend the next hour doing nothing but examining the elegant contraption, licking it, holding it to my ear, fiddling clumsily with the dial on the side.

All the while, my companion watches me, eyes shifting in and out of focus, mind shifting in and out of daydream. She murmurs to me sometimes, arranging my clothing on my abnormally thin body—on the BMI, I am in the fifth percentile—and pressing soft kisses to my cheeks.

"I love you," she declares carefully, emphasizing each word, as if to help me understand them, and I turn away from the watch at the prospect of learning her language. "I love you," she repeats, meeting my eyes almost warily. We continue staring at one another for several seconds, but her attempt at communication is futile, and love is far too abstract a concept for me to grasp. I focus on the watch and its tangibility once more, tracking the second hand as it does laps around the gleaming face.

"Do you love me?" she whispers hopefully, but the words mean nothing to me and I am mesmerized by the physical interpretation of the passing of time in my hands.

A tear lands on the tip of my nose and I jump in surprise. Another lands on the watch, and the water magnifies the second hand as it passes through. The drop slips off my nose and onto my lips, where it acquaints my tongue with the taste of salt. I freeze and absorb the flavor, enthralled by its novelty, until it fades. At this point, I bring the watch to my mouth and give it a sloppy kiss, tasting the tear once more.

My companion gives a strangled sob, gathering me off her lap and placing me on the hospital bed, then rushing out of the room, leaving me bewildered with nothing but a watch and a room full of machinery for company, which is quite alright with me.

It has been common knowledge for some time now that ducklings imprint on the first creature they see, be it of the same species or otherwise, and dub it their mother. This is the creature they will learn from, and aspire to be. Seeing as my first sight was a machine, this finding comes as no surprise to me.

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Happy October, all! And welcome to my new fanfiction. --bow-- I will be updating with much frequency all through this month, so look for updates soon. Enjoy!

BIGGGGGG thank you to my beta, Scaity, as always, for her fabulous editing, as well as for her patience when I procrastinate.

On another note, some of you may have noticed that I, the author formerly known as twilightguitargirl, am now Blueberry-Valentine, as my interest in Twilight has considerably declined.

Reviewers get a big hug from cute little baby L. :D


	2. Two

I am two years old the first time I meet Quillsh Wammy.

Marie is making pancakes, more for herself than me, as I am considerably fonder of tearing my pancakes into concentric circles than of eating them, although I do have quite an affinity for maple syrup. We are juxtaposed on opposite sides of the dining table, her with proper posture despite her frazzled appearance, holding a fork daintily in one hand and a knife carefully in the other; and I slouching in my high chair, leaving my utensils discarded in favor of sculpting my breakfast with my hands and licking the syrup off my fingers.

"Darling," she murmurs, and I glance up sharply, recognizing the word. I still have not begun to speak, though I do sound out syllables under my breath when Marie is asleep, and I have developed quite a vocabulary for my age. "Darling" is not my name, but it is what Marie—which I figured out long ago _is_ my companion's name—calls me when she is quietly irritated with me. I suck at the sugary mixture coating my thumb and meet her half-lidded gaze to show that I am listening. "Don't play with your food, please." I recognize the words "don't," "play," "food," and "please," and recognize the order that they are in, and know how I am supposed to react to them, but far prefer my method of breakfasting to hers, so I look away and resume tugging my pancakes into progressively smaller circles.

Marie sighs, and drops her silverware to the table with a dull clatter, preferring to use her hands to hold up her suddenly limp head. "He's going to be the smartest, brattiest teenager in the world." I don't recognize many words in this long sentence, but Marie obviously isn't speaking to me, so I don't bother puzzling it out.

Marie has barely begun pounding her fists gently against her brow when the doorbell rings. She stops this self-abuse at once, turning around in alarm to face the entrance. "Did you invite someone over?" she inquires and though I don't understand the question, I do understand that she is quietly and darkly mocking me as she arches an eyebrow in my direction. I stare down at the seven rings decorating my plate and begin to smear on them various patterns in syrup; lines cover the outer circle as beaming rays from a sun.

Marie stands with a labored sigh in my direction, as if it is my fault for her having to get up, and within a few seconds, the front door swings open. "Quillsh!" she yelps in surprise, and I have trouble determining whether this is a name, or simply a peculiar interjection.

"Good morning, Marie," the visitor greets, a slight effervescence infusing his voice. "It's been quite a while. Pardon the intrusion, but I was on my way to meet Roger in Winchester, and I couldn't pass up the chance to visit you." I cover the next circle in shaky, dimpled ovals.

"Oh, I don't mind at all!" Marie assures him a bit frantically. "Come right in." Heavy footsteps sound against the linoleum, and I look up from decorating the second ring, ready to intercept our guest with my gaze.

"The place looks lovely, dear," the man compliments, and enters the kitchen. "You've moved around some of the furniture since I was last here, haven't you?" With some surprise, I take in the wideness of his shoulders, the extra near foot of height towering over petite Marie, and conclude that he must be of a different sort of person than Marie. I have just recently begun to discern what could be best classified as gender differences, though my understanding is not refined, nor even correct; my current assumptions consist of four genders.

"Just a bit." She laughs, a tremulous parody of a laugh, and begins to inconspicuously shove scattered papers into neat piles. On the third circle, I alternate between short, fat isosceles triangles and tall, narrow ones.

"Oh, Marie," he exclaims excitedly, quickly stepping to the table to get a closer look at me. "Is this the little angel you're fostering?"

"Yes, that's him," she confirms, pulling her hair into a frazzled imitation of a ponytail.

"You never did tell me his name," he recalls, removing his heavy coat and laying it over the back of a chair; it makes his frame look much smaller. I move onto the fourth ring, and draw lopsided crescents on it.

"I didn't, did I?" she murmurs tiredly. "It's a rather unusual case; the name on his birth certificate is L Lawliet, but I don't dream of actually calling him that."

The man has been tilting his head to the side as he examines me, and he now tips it to the opposite side and blinks at Marie. "I beg your pardon—_Elle_?" I refocus on my work, and decide that birds are too difficult to draw, and that I will simply place fish in the fifth circle.

"No, L," she corrects, "as in the letter." The man's brows climb to the top of his forehead. "His mother didn't have the soundest of minds, from what I gather."

"What a shame. Hmm…but, Lawliet…" The man repeats it to himself, trying it on for size, then glances at the ceiling in reflection. "It's quite nice, actually. Have you considered using that as his given name?"

"I've considered it, but I won't, of course. I don't want to torture the child with such a peculiar name," she explains. "He'll be bullied on the playground."

The man chuckles, and places a hand to his chin. "Ever the sensible one," he notes, and she gives a weak smile. In my egocentric opinion, humans are far more important than land-dwelling creatures, so I draw sets of two circles in the sixth ring, and dot their centers; after all, animate eyes are the defining characteristic of all sentient beings.

"Well, now. What have we here?" The man has noticed what I am doing. He leans closer to my breakfast, adjusting his glasses along the bridge of his bumpy nose, then stowing his hands behind his back. "Impressive fine motor skills," he notes approvingly. "Are you making art, little one?"

Art is a physical manifestation of the convoluted thoughts in one's head; I suppose that I am making art indeed. I firmly nod my head in confirmation, as I have observed Marie doing.

The man jumps a bit, evidently not having expected such a coherent response, though why he asked in the first place is beyond me. He collects himself quickly and says with a wave of his hand, "Carry on then." I don't understand what it is that he wants me to carry, but whatever the object, it's probably too heavy for me, so I ignore this command and return to my pancake masterpiece. I pick up the middle circle, rip off a small piece, and shove it in my mouth slowly; I note that it is good. I then push my plate off the table.

Marie and the man flinch, Marie with a half-shriek, and she whips around to stare in dismay at the overturned plastic plate and the scraps of mangled pancake. It's almost as if she doesn't appreciate the symbolic artwork I have created.

"Darling," she sighs and pulls me out of my high chair. "Breakfast is done; let's go play." My mouth and hands are wiped clean of sugary residue by a wet washcloth, and then we depart into the living room.

Perhaps she did appreciate my creativity after all, I reflect happily as she sets me on the plush rug amongst a pile of books. Marie learned long ago that books were of far more interest to me than those miniature, fake automobiles and lifeless plush creatures that look like me, but are dumb and inanimate. "Here you go," she declares, placing a well-loved book in my hands; Marie has read it to me more times than she can count, and we both have practically memorized the first several pages.

"_My First Bible,"_ the echo of Marie's voice whispers in my ear, and I trace over the words. There are only three words, so I know which group of sounds goes with each word, but that is as far as my understanding goes. I pass over the first several pages, as Marie does, and start on a page filled with black. _"In the beginning,"_ I remember, fingertip dragging slowly over the line, "_there was only darkness. But God was there, and God had a plan."_

The man is in the middle of politely answering questions about his wellbeing when he notices what I am doing on the floor. "Marie, dear, am I mistaken, or is that boy of yours _reading?"_

"Reading?" she repeats, her gaze flicking down to me. "Oh." She shakes her head dismissively. "No, he's not. He's just copying me; that's what I do when I read to him."

"Are you certain?" he inquires, taking a hesitant step towards me, fueled by insatiable curiosity.

I flip the page, and lay my eyes on the magnificent explosion of yellow exorcising the blackness. "_'Let there be light,' He said. Suddenly, there was a golden light all around, and it was called 'day.'"_

"His eyes seem to be following along."

"_The dark was separated from the light, and it was called 'night.' That was the first day."_

The man lowers himself to the floor, settling himself into the rug at my side. My hand reaches to continue on to the next page, but it stops, frozen under his inquisitiveness. Slowly, to convey my irritation at being interrupted, I slide my gaze up to meet his. Black orbs meet blue, separated by both my metaphorical lenses of childhood, and his literal bifocal lenses.

"Hello," he greets. Unblinking, I raise a hand in polite reply. He seems uncommonly delighted by this simple gesture; an enormous grin spreads across his face, illuminating it as if he's been offered a glimpse at the pearly gates of heaven. "My name is Quillsh," he continues with a pleasant smile. This is the first time anyone has introduced themselves so plainly to me. I appreciate that he has done it, as it saves me time having to figure it out.

This introduction, however, also brings up a disconcerting question: what is _my _name? Marie doesn't actually call me by anything, now that I think on the subject. _"Would you like some grapes, honey?" "It's time for bed now, love." "Darling, it's two in the morning; put the book down."_

Quillsh doesn't seem offended by my inability to reply to his introduction, and moves on quickly. "What book are you reading?" I understand this question, so in response, I tilt the cover in his direction for him to see the title.

"_The_ _Bible_?" He stares in absolute incredulity at Marie, who looks perplexed.

"Yes…" she confirms tentatively.

He laughs breathily. "Heavy reading material for a two year old."

"He's two and a half," Marie corrects defensively. "And he's not actually reading."

Quillsh is no longer questioning me, and these thoughts regarding my own identity are troubling, so I return to my book and turn to a page covered by cheerful cumulus clouds. _"On the second day, God said, 'Let there be a great space,' and the space was called 'sky.'"_

Quillsh sees that I am not paying him any more notice, and lays a gentle hand on my arm to catch my attention. "Lawliet," he begins, but does not get any further than that.

"That's not his name, Quillsh," Marie snaps. "You'll confuse him if you address him like that."

"You're going to need to give the child a name sooner or later."

"Didn't you say you were on your way to meet Roger?"

Quillsh seems taken aback by this harshly delivered inquiry. "I was," he stammers, glancing down at his watch. "I suppose I should be leaving, then." He prepares to do so, heading towards the kitchen to get his coat, and Marie follows him, all the while with her arms crossed over her chest and her lower lip quivering.

They save the rest of their conversation for the front door, but this is a small house, and the walls are thin, and they don't count on my eavesdropping.

"I'm sorry, Quillsh. I—"

"No, Marie. I shouldn't have come so suddenly. I've enjoyed seeing you though, truly."

"I have as well."

Two quick footsteps forward, a whispered shuffling of clothing, then two hurried footsteps backward and the door opens.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go."

"Of course."

"Goodbye, Marie."

"Goodbye."

And the door closes.

* * *

_If anyone knows how to pronounce Lawliet, I would love to hear it. My beta and I have had many extensive conversations on the subject, and I'm dying to know the truth._

_I watched The Nightmare Before Christmas for the first time today and loved it. The conversation between Santa and Jack, in which Santa's hat was stolen by Jack, reminded me of L and Beyond Birthday, respectively. I'm a Death Note freak. :D_

__

_A million thank yous to my beta, Scaity, for being amazing and editing this so last minute._

Reviewers get to have breakfast with L.


	3. Three

I am three years old when I first realize that Quillsh is here to stay. In the half year preceding this revelation, I have only a taste of what living with him will be like.

Three days after our initial meeting, Quillsh returns, armed with a colorful, cardboard book meant to teach children the alphabet. "I don't see you for two whole years, and then twice in one week?" Marie laughs, looking quietly delighted by his appearance. But then she sees what he is carrying, and he asks whether she would mind if he spoke with me, and she deflates.

Quillsh, however, is far too interested in me to notice the melancholy mistily settling about her. "A," he proclaims, pointing to the vibrant, red letter, then to the smaller counterpart beside it. "A for apple." Indeed, there is a gleaming Red Delicious on the right. "B," he continues, and these letters are in yellow. "B for banana."

This is a very strange and boring book. Aside from naming fruits, it does not seem to be about much. I palm at the smooth page, wondering if I will be able to activate some hidden trigger, and when this fails, I turn to the next page in hopes that it will divulge this oddity's secrets.

"C," Quillsh reads out, placing an instructive finger on the curving symbols. "C for cat." A cat is not a fruit, nor even a food, as far as I'm concerned, so I doubt that this is some sort of culinary encyclopedia. But then I see the pattern, and understanding alights on my head as a metaphorical light bulb, and I look up at Quillsh and grin.

I learn swiftly after that, filling sheets of paper over and over again with letters scribbled in black marker. When Quillsh leaves late that afternoon, I don't mind so much because he has left his book with me. I refuse to let go of the book, much to Marie's frustration, bringing it to bed with me and having her read out the letters at various times throughout the day. By the end of the week, I have memorized the entire alphabet.

One may wonder at my unusual fascination with learning how to write; Marie certainly does, going as far as calling Quillsh to ask him whether this is normal behavior for a child—I regret that I don't hear his response—and whether he would be able to come over more frequently to facilitate my learning.

Evidently, he readily agrees, as he comes the very next day, bearing gifts of books for me to enjoy. One need only imagine the expression of a child on Christmas morning to envision Quillsh when he walks in and sees me scrawling out the entire contents of his alphabet book for the sixth time—from memory.

"He's been doing nothing but this since you left," Marie reports anxiously, wringing her hands in front of her. "You don't think he has obsessive compulsive disorder, do you? Or autism?"

"Certainly not!" Quillsh exclaims, falling to the floor beside me in delight and beginning to leaf through the sheets of paper surrounding me.

"What about Asperger's Syndrome then?"

"Ah, Marie." Quillsh shakes his head. "When one has such a gifted child, it's only natural to question how thoroughly one has been blessed."

"He was nearly three months premature, Quillsh. Don't get your hopes up."

"Don't fret so much, my dear!"

"But I went to the library and checked several books on the subject, and I'm quite worried that he may have some sort of autistic spectrum disorder."

Quillsh laughs her concerns off. "A miniature Einstein you've got here!"

However, it is nothing as truly remarkable as that. I am merely desperate to learn the secret to communicating with those around me. Simply speaking seems far too inane, somehow; there is so much room for error, and I theorize that it would be easier to come across as intelligent through writing than through speech. Besides, I've been taciturn for so long now that I imagine it would feel rather uncomfortable talking.

Anyhow, I have just filled my last sheet, so I pick it up, catch Marie's gaze, and wave it to inform her of my lack of paper. "One moment, dear," she appeases, disappearing from the living room before Quillsh has a chance to glance up and see the movement, let alone to comment on her admittedly strangely servile fulfillment of my request.

Instead, he turns to me, raising a questioning eyebrow, and I shrug, as if to say, "I tend to have that effect on people." I doubt I properly conveyed this sentiment, but it's really the thought that counts, and Quillsh chuckles at the blasé gesture anyway.

"Here we go," Marie calls as she passes through the doorway, and she sets down what appears to be a quarter ream of paper. I blink at it for a moment, then decide that there's nothing wrong with being over prepared, and slide a piece off the top.

Before I can clumsily bring my pencil to the paper, Quillsh sets my favorite book in front of me. "Why don't we try something new," he suggests, and points to the title. "Write this down," he instructs.

I do so, a dozen times, until I no longer need to look at it for reference. _"My First Bible," _Marie narrates in my head every time I copy out the letters. When I feel that I have sufficiently mastered this phrase, I turn to the beginning of the story and begin writing it down without any prompting from Quillsh. This causes him to burst into delighted chuckles, but Marie's expression darkens.

As I race through the book, Quillsh's quick visit becomes quite the extended stay. Marie attempts to make conversation, but Quillsh is plenty entertained by simply watching me and commenting on my apparently constantly cherubic behavior and spoiling her attempts at small talk.

"So intelligent!" he exclaims, shaking his head in awe when I begin mouthing approximations of the words as I write them. "My dear, have you thought of getting him tested? What do you reckon you'll do for schooling?"

"I'm not sure," she murmurs.

"He's such a darling, child, Marie, truly, such a darling child."

Marie bursts into a spectacular explosion of waterworks.

"I'm sorry, Quillsh," she blubbers, using her sleeve to mop up the salty rivers decorating her cheeks, and he whips his head around to look at her in astonishment. "I don't know what's wrong with me. You just handle him so well and I…I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I don't know what to do."

"Oh, don't worry, my dear. You're a wonderful mother," he soothes, gathering her into his arms and letting her sob into his sweater. The compliment quite bemuses me, because even as he pats her back and murmurs condolences into the air above her hair, his attention is fully absorbed by my presence, and the gears in his head are quite obviously working on a problem other than one regarding Marie's emotional state. I wonder how long it will take me to become as skilled at multitasking as he.

Seven weeks and twenty five visits pass, and then I am reading with the fluency of a four or five year old. In this period, I have also learned how to count, have mastered addition and subtraction, and know my multiplication table up to ten. My reading comprehension is extraordinary, as is my spelling, and my vocabulary. Quillsh has even begun teaching me to read music.

Strangely and rather perplexingly, as my list of skills grows exponentially, Marie's emotional and mental stability decays just as rapidly. I don't fully understand what this sickness is, and I am far too absorbed in my studies to care much besides, but Quillsh is quite distressed, and as I am under his tutelage, I cannot help but notice Marie's depression.

The summer months roll around, and with them comes warmth and flowers and children biking through the streets, but the lemony sunshine only agitates Marie further. Our windows are always tightly fastened, and our heavy curtains are always meticulously arranged so as to bar any light from entering, and enough fans are running to wear a sweater indoors. Quillsh's regular visits turn into impromptu babysitting sessions, as well as unpaid maid services, and by the middle of July, Marie doesn't bother with locking the door, just in case he decides to drop in.

I don't mind having Quillsh around so often; on the contrary, he provides enough mental stimulation that it would be difficult for me to dislike his company. I have no particular yearning to participate in active games, nor to climb trees or swim in lakes outdoors, and neither does Quillsh, so we spend the summer devouring books of every sort and going through a forest's worth of paper and occasionally cracking open Marie's dusty piano to fiddle around with Mozart.

Then one August morning, we do something different.

"Marie!" Quillsh shouts, holding me in one arm and a backpack filled with books and paper and writing utensils on the other shoulder. "We're going out!"

Slowly, Marie slinks out of her bedroom, a housecoat tightly wrapped around her body, formerly pleasantly plump and vibrant, now made chilly and gaunt by a combination of misery, age, and something unknown to me then, which I will later suppose was heartbreak. "Have fun" is her monotonous, glassy eyed response. I do my best not to gaze in her direction, as it is a bit painful having to look at this ghost of her former self.

"We will!" Quillsh promises with a bright smile. Why he continues to put on such a show is beyond me. "You have some fun too, alright, my dear?"

"Perhaps," she considers shakily, as if the concept of having fun is alien and unthinkable. "I'm going to sleep now." She turns herself around, worn slippers scuffing at the floorboards, and shuffles off in the opposite direction.

Quillsh swallows audibly. "Sweet dreams," he wishes, and the emotion in his voice is painful as well. He stares after her retreating form for another moment, then clears his throat and crows, "Off we go!" I nod my assent and we sweep out the front door.

The car ride is relatively harmless and comfortable, aside from, of course, the annoyance of the restricting car seat, and Quillsh takes the opportunity to educate me on several aspects of nature, including the true nature of the blinding light in the sky and cotton swabs floating over the treetops.

"You see, Lawliet," he explains, calling me by the name he only uses when Marie is out of the room, which has become increasingly often, "that's why you can't stand on clouds, even if you were able to get up that high!"

I have understood his description of evaporation and the components of clouds so far, but this last statement puzzles me. What could possibly drive me to want to stand on clouds?

Quillsh pulls to a halt at a red light, and glances over at my questioningly cocked head. "What? Haven't you ever wanted to stand on a cloud, or to sleep on one?" I shake my head slowly, still rather perplexed. "How about wanting to eat one?" I shake my head more firmly; I imagine that neither salty sea water nor dirty street water would taste particularly pleasant.

"How interesting," he muses with a little laugh. "As a child, I used to believe that clouds tasted something like cotton candy." I do not know what cotton candy is, so I continue to blink uncomprehendingly at him. Quillsh can tell my interested gazes from my blank stares, and understands at once that I have no idea what he is rambling on about. "I shall have to buy you some cotton candy then," he declares, accelerating as the traffic light switches to green. At the time, I am indifferent regarding this proposal, as I have not yet discovered the marvel that is sugar.

We arrive at a quaint little café surrounded by planters filled with vibrant petals and elaborate, curling black fencing. I am accustomed to the blatant staring from passersby, but Quillsh appears agitated by their curiosity, and his grip tightens and he pulls me closer to his chest. I don't mind because it is pleasant to feel cared for when Marie has nearly stopped carrying me altogether.

The cheerful jingling of a bell accompanies our entrance, and a passing waitress grins at Quillsh and greets him by name; he, evidently, is a frequent customer. As is his companion, apparently, as the middle-aged gentleman at the table we are approaching is finishing up a conversation with another young waiter.

"Good morning, Roger," Quillsh greets, settling me into a chair as his companion, Roger, looks on with a slowly growing smile of fascination. "Lawliet, this is Roger," he introduces, gesturing to the man. "And Roger, this is Lawliet."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Roger notes cordially.

I nod.

Quillsh fishes a notepad and pen out of the backpack, sets the former two on the table and the latter on the floor, then seats himself as well.

"I've heard a lot about you, Lawliet," Roger informs me. "Do you like math?"

I nod.

"And music? I've heard that you're rather fond of Mozart."

I nod.

"Do you like science?"

I nod.

Roger appears to be growing a bit frustrated with my persistent reticence, so Quillsh decides to step in. "You like to read, correct?" he interjects. I nod, smiling. "Why don't you tell Roger what kinds of books you like?"

I can spell the answer to this quite proficiently, so I slowly write out "My First Bible" on the first sheet of the notepad. Roger appears surprised when I pick up the pen, and downright stunned when I push the completed phrase in his direction.

"'My First Bible,'" he reads out, glancing at Quillsh incredulously. Quillsh smile, quietly smug, and Roger clears his throat, arranges his glasses more securely on his nose, then turns back to me. "I can't say I've read that one. Would you mind if I shared a book of my own with you?"

I perk up considerably at the prospect of this man sharing a book with me. I nod vigorously and smiling, he pulls a thin hardcover out of a bag sitting on the floor. My plump fingers clutch eagerly at the red book, peering intently at the cheerful white elephant decorating the cover. I press my index finger to the title, carefully sounding it out. "Horton Hears a Who," I eventually make out. "By Dr. Seuss," it continues, and though it is a bit of a peculiar name, after hearing Quillsh and Lawliet, thinking any name truly strange would be hypocritical.

I flip to the story, startling Roger, who leans closer to Quillsh and quietly asks, "Has he just read that?" to which Quillsh responds by chuckling and nodding his confirmation. I give no indication that I have heard their exchange, but am rather irritated by Roger's incredulity; besides our first few periods of interaction, I've gotten used to Quillsh reacting to my learning swiftly with cool, practical praise.

Instead, I focus on the story and the vibrant illustrations. "On the fifteenth of May, in the jungle of Nool; In the heat of the day, in the cool of the pool; He was splashing, enjoying the jungle's great joys; When Horton the Elephant heard a small noise…"

When it becomes obvious that I am completely mesmerized by what I am reading, Roger and Quillsh delve into a conversation of their own, allowing me to drink in the tale of the miniscule town of the Whos. I don't understand a good half of what I read, but the illustrations are quite explanatory, and later on I will go through it again with Quillsh and ask him to clarify the meanings of words I do not know.

The story is endearing and juvenile, anthropomorphizing the animal characters and utilizing rhymes that would never be spoken in the real world. But a key phrase does stick with me, quite permanently, remaining lurking in the back of my head for years: "A person's a person, no matter how small." This means that everyone is a person, even me.

* * *

Summer drains into autumn, the days shortening and the weather darkening, and then it is my birthday.

(Which, perplexingly, the whole neighborhood seems to know about; all sorts of children dress up in peculiar costumes and arrive at the door, but Quillsh sends them away with bribes of candy.)

The chilly air does Marie some good, and she begins coming out of her room increasingly often to eat and freshen up. I expect Quillsh to be delighted by these improvements, as it is evident that he and she are, or at least used to be, good friends, or perhaps even more. However, he grows more and more troubled as the days pass until I begin to wonder whether Quillsh is somehow taking Marie's depression for himself.

This doesn't seem like too unlikely a possibility, as whenever Marie is well enough to go outside, such as now when she is running a quick errand to the grocery store, Quillsh seems the most unsettled.

He has just finished making me oatmeal for a late four o'clock lunch—I've always had strange eating patterns—and he is now sitting at the table across from me looking grave. I ignore him for the time being, assuming that he will tell me whatever is on his mind soon enough.

"Your mother told me that if something were ever to happen to her, you should live with me."

My first thought is that I don't have a mother. Then I understand that he is referring to Marie. My next realization is that something terrible has happened to Marie. "We'll be spending a lot of time together," Quillsh continues pleasantly, and I cannot understand why we aren't doing anything to stop whatever terrible thing Marie is undergoing, "just like we used to, but now without your mother. We'll have to make the best of it together."

Marie is not coming back. Even though I know that nothing of the sort is there, it sounds as though a tornado is whirring along one ear canal, and as though a tsunami is crashing through the other, and it's very distracting. So distracting in fact, that I don't realize at first that I have spoken aloud.

"Excuse me?" Quillsh appears to be about to faint.

The charade is up now, I suppose, now that Marie is gone, so I don't bother pretending that I don't know how to speak anymore. "Marie is not coming back," I repeat. My voice sounds rather funny, even to my own ears, as it has only been used quietly and daringly behind Marie's dozing back. However, as pleased as I am with my articulation, I may have erred somehow in my sentence structure, as Quillsh seems incapable of doing more than gaping wordlessly at me.

"I'm sorry," I say as an expression of apology for my blunder. "I am wrong?" I question, then pause, flustered, and correct, "Am I wrong?"

"N-no," Quillsh stammers, reaching out to the table frantically for support. "You're not wrong. Marie won't be returning."

I shake my head. I wasn't asking whether my assumption about Marie's disappearance was correct; there is no question that Marie is gone for good. "No. Are my words wrong?"

Again, Quillsh seems to be having trouble articulating his thoughts. "No," he answers tremulously. "They were quite alright."

I smile. "That is good." And I return to my oatmeal.

"We need to leave soon," he informs me after a moment.

"Okay."

"I'll go pack up your things then."

"Bring my books." I suck at my spoon, then add, "Bring _My First Bible_."

Quillsh appears a great deal paler than he was a minute ago. "Of course," he agrees, and unsteadily leaves the room. My tongue fishes around for stray bits of oatmeal, and I note a bit disappointedly that my revealed ability to speak seems to have greatly diminished Quillsh's.

Quillsh spends the next hour packing up the car with boxes of my belongings, then with food, and finally with me.

(Though I'm not aware of it at the time, Quillsh also spends a portion of these precious sixty minutes crafting a letter to Marie. It reads:

_Dearest Marie,_

_I've set up a reservation at a restaurant for the three of us to dine tonight. Directions are on the back of this sheet of paper. We look forward to seeing you there._

_I am truly sorry for all my mistakes. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me._

_With love,_

_Quillsh_

He sets this on the kitchen table and leaves without looking back.)

Four hours of driving through the hammering rain later, Quillsh announces that we have reached our destination. I gape at the enormous iron gate filling the windshield, and the even more enormous institution sprawling out behind it. The rain mists against the regal grounds, pooling at the bases of the towering trees and dampening the expanses of emerald lawn.

"Is this your home?" I marvel, my jaw hanging slack after the inquiry.

"It is now," Quillsh replies, cutting the engine. He arranges a scarf around each of our necks and tugs a woolen cap over my head, preparing for our venture into the deluge. The fat droplets pound at my skull as I totter down the driveway and up to the great locked entrance. Quillsh unlocks the door will a heavy key, and lets me inside. For the next two years, I am not let out.

* * *

_Author's Note: Oh dearie me! What a procrastinator I am! This chapter simply refused to be written. It's mostly filler, really. All the good fun stuff will be coming soon. I've got about 80% of the rest of this story written, so expect frequent updates. (Really! I mean it this time!) Perhaps even more than once a day! O.O_

_Thank you enormously, friend at school, who is now my sub-beta, as my existing beta has fallen off the face of the earth. (Beta.....where are you....?)_

_Now, I know that Halloween is coming up soon, and in addition to being L's birthday, it is quite a fabulous holiday, so I should be exceptionally excited about that. I'm also aware that it is still October, and Thanksgiving hasn't even rolled around yet. BUT I cannot wait for CHRISTMAS. Not Christmas Day, exactly, as wonderful as opening presents and all is, but more the entire month of December. I'm really looking forward to the reindeer and the elves and the big evergreens and the scarves and perhaps, if we Washingtonians are lucky, the snow and the festive Christmas spirit_ _saturating the air and the muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuusic._

_Oh dear. The music. I was listening to _Baby, It's Cold Outside _the other night, and then my friend at school showed me David Archuleta's Christmas CD and I cannot stop listening to it on YouTube. (I'm not even particularly fond of David Archuleta, but he really has a lovely Christmas voice.) _

_I'm even planning on adding some red and green and sweaters and argyle (oh, dear, I love argyle) to my wardrobe, as it mainly consists of various black tee shirts at the moment._

_SO, if you're also feeling strangely Christmasey, or you feel a hankering for sharing some cotton candy with L, review!_


	4. Five

I am five years old the first and last time I cut myself.

I have spent plenty of time during the past half decade inspecting my body, marveling at its stretching and thinning, at the continuous growth of its hair and nails, at the joints and muscles and tendons bending and stretching and working perfectly in tandem. However, as fascinating as such an investigation is, curiosity pushes me hard for an even further examination.

It is common knowledge that curiosity is a powerful force, but it is hard to imagine the childish persistence with which I have been wondering at the inner workings of my body. If I was older and capable of a more refined thought process, it might be labeled as an obsession.

The only problem is how to get into my body, as thoroughly covered by skin as it is. Such a substance is rather durable, as it would have to be as my primary defense against death.

And then, I see it.

Quillsh has just fished a stack of letters out of the mailbox, and is now methodically going through them and slicing some of them open with an ornate envelope opener. The device swiftly and efficiently slashes through the thin, milky material, which greatly resembles my own skin, and therefore will likely be a suitable investigative apparatus.

Roger peeks into the room, barely more than his receding hairline visible from my angle. "Quillsh, may I speak to you for a moment?"

"Certainly," he replies cheerfully, spinning around in his chair and lacing his fingers over his stomach.

Roger's eyes appear over the doorframe, meeting mine, and he none too subtly jerks his head back. "In private," he stresses, and Quillsh's brow furrows a bit as he sets down the envelope he is holding and stands up.

"I'll return in a few minutes," he promises, closing the door behind him, and leaving me alone.

I cannot resist.

I scurry over to the desk, scrambling onto the chair and picking up the bejeweled knife. A majority of the faux gems are red. It is, as the saying goes, the straw that breaks the camel's back. Of course, in my case, the piece of straw is a great deal sharper, and the camel's back is far more delicate.

I clamber back onto the ground, and begin to gently saw at my forearm and soon enough, a faint white line appears under the blade, and then a shade of pink blossoms on the mark, and, finally, the skin breaks.

It is beautiful, so much so that it more than makes up for the pain. A thin line of crimson bubbles from the incision, vibrant paint against the white canvas of my arm. I stare in awe at the intensity of the color, and am amazed by the magnificence concealed by such a misleadingly thin layer of skin. Certainly, I have scraped by elbows or skinned by knees in a fall, but those injuries were nowhere near as splendid as what I have discovered.

I press the blade to the cut again, hoping to unearth even more excitement from my body, but this time, something is terribly wrong. It _hurts_. It hurts a _lot_. There are no shifting color schemes or shimmering explosions of light or anything at all to distract from the fact that I am in a lot of pain, and the blood is coming out so quickly that even when I remove the envelope opener, it doesn't stop.

Beginning to panic, I clasp my palm to the gash, and scarlet oozes through the gaps between my fingers. I remove my hand and attempt another solution: licking it away. This tactic works quite well when jelly spurts out of a donut or juice oozes from a pear, but evidently not nearly as well when a person is bleeding. Not only does it sting terribly, as though miniature envelope openers are pricking at its edges, but the taste—_oh_, the taste!

It feels as if a hundred old spoons are being pressed to my tongue, or as if I have a hundred noses all running at the same time, or as if a hundred little people are clinging to my tonsils. I cannot stop gagging, and then I cannot stop crying, and finally I am shouting for Quillsh because this is the worst idea I've ever had.

He comes rushing in at once because I could count the number of times I've cried in my entire life on my hands, and the number of times Quillsh has seen me cry on one. He bursts into the room, nearly knocking the door off its hinges, because Quillsh is much stronger than he looks and he cares for my wellbeing a great deal, even if it isn't always apparent.

He drops to his knees in a flash, all aches and pains miraculously cured by the adrenaline, and his gaze flashes from my arm to the bloodied envelope opener and back again. He looks as though he wants to hit me or yell at me, but he does neither of those in lieu of scooping my frail form into his arms and rushing me into the bathroom over my choking sobs.

Five minutes later, the cut has been doused in hydrogen peroxide and securely bandaged in white cloth that nearly matches my skin, and Quillsh refuses to look me in the eye. At first, I can think of nothing but the throbbing pain in my arm, but then I realize that he is mad at me.

"I apologize for inconveniencing you," I murmur, head ducked ruefully.

Quillsh's only reply is to viciously shove the bandages back into the cupboard.

"It was irresponsible of me," I add hopefully.

The cupboard door slams with a tremendous _thunk_.

"It was incredibly irresponsible of you!" Quillsh shouts furiously. I flinch, never having heard his voice reach such a decibel before. "Don't you realize what you could have done?"

"I was merely curious," I inform him, distress infusing my voice with aloofness.

"That's no excuse for such unthinkably dreadful behavior," he snaps. "You could have killed yourself, Lawliet."

I blink in surprise, lips parting marginally. I hadn't realized that such an action could cause me death; to be honest, I hadn't realized that _any_ action could cause me death. "I could have died?" I whisper.

"Yes," he replies fiercely. "You are human, and believe it or not, if you're not careful, you could die."

"Human?" I mumble to myself.

"I have big dreams for you, Lawliet, _big dreams_," he emphasizes through his teeth. "You have no idea how much time and money I have invested in you, and I am _not_ going to let you ruin all the hard work I have done."

I can puzzle out enough of this peculiar declaration that I know that my dying would definitely ruin his plans. "I understand. I will not do this again," I promise.

Quillsh seems to deflate. His shoulders droop and he faces away from me, kneading the bridge of his nose. "Thank you."

Knuckles rap at the door, partially ajar and allowing Roger's head to pop through. "Quillsh, may I ask for your presence in my office?"

Quillsh removes his drawn face from his hand, gazes at Roger for a moment, then turns to me and asks, "Can I trust you to handle yourself well while I'm gone?"

"Yes," I answer, sure and deadpan.

He fixes his blue eyes on me firmly. "Good." They disappear out the bathroom door, close the door to Roger's office, and our branch of the house falls silent.

I silently repeat Quillsh's order to handle myself well, then decide that eavesdropping on their conversation would by no means break this order, and begin figuring out how to best get down from the countertop that Quillsh has ever so slyly abandoned me on top of.

Two minutes later, I am victoriously padding sneakily down the hallway to Roger's closed office door and pressing my ear against the thinnest part of the wall.

"—don't mean to sound like a fusspot, but I truly am worried, and today's incident only furthers my anxiety."

"Roger, he's barely entered childhood."

It doesn't take me long to discern that they are discussing me.

"Which is why we need to intervene before he reaches a point in his life where it is irreversible."

"There's probably nothing wrong with him in the first place."

"I'm afraid that he'll begin developing symptoms exhibited by those in solitary confinement.

"Solitary confinement!" Quillsh is audibly outraged. "We aren't _confining _him!"

"Practically. He hasn't talked to anyone but us since he was three."

"And look at how far he's come!"

"Quillsh. He's not a business. He's not a machine. He's just a kid—an incredibly intelligent kid, but a kid nonetheless—whose childhood we cannot afford to ruin."

"But we're going to begin pre-algebra next week!"

"This cannot continue." His tone is unalterably firm. "If he continues living this way, you're going to seriously compromise his social skills, not to mention his mental stability."

There is a long moment of silence.

"I suppose there would be no harm in allowing him to speak with some of the children."

Roger sighs in relief. "Thank you."

Quillsh grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like a series of curses.

Roger laughs his rare, booming laugh. "Oh, Quillsh, my dear friend." Clothing rustles and Roger continues chuckling, and then there are three sharp footsteps and a jar of pens is knocked off the table. Roger falls silent.

"Well, then." Quillsh's voice is unusually loud. "I will—I will get to work on that, er, arrangement with Lawliet and th-the children." I hear him approaching the door, and realize that it is long past time for me to vacate the area. I scramble down the hall and duck behind a corner just as Quillsh emerges. He stands several yards away from the door, looking flushed and conflicted, then throws his arm up to his forehead, closes his eyes, and sighs.

I slip back to Quillsh's office, where I am supposed to have been for the past several minutes, and pull out a nearly completed math workbook. I scan over the last couple chapters, then move on to the review section in the back. Perhaps if I can convince Quillsh to get me started on pre-algebra early, I won't have to converse with these children they speak of.

* * *

_Author's Note: Ah... There we go. One chapter right after the next, just as I'd originally planned. Took me long enough to get it right._

_BIG thank yous to chibi-hime123 for editing this, as well as chapters 3 and 5. You win at life. :D_


	5. Seven

I am seven years old and Quillsh is making pancakes for the first time in quite a while. The homey scent stirs up dusty memories and I chew at my thumbnail thoughtfully, hazily reminiscing.

"Quillsh, I have a question to ask of you," I inform him from my perch on a stool.

He checks the underside of a pancake and looks satisfied by its appearance. "Ask away." He gives me a tiny, devious smile, and then flips the pancake high into the air with a flourish.

"What ever happened to Marie?"

The pancake lands on the stovetop.

"You remember Marie?" The question isn't as much a verification as an accusation. Quillsh's brow is troubled and his eyes are stormy; he rather resembles a tropical cyclone. His grip on the spatula tightens and he looks down at the fallen pancake.

I know right then and there that if I want to retain any of my simple naiveté, I should stop this conversation immediately. However, I am a curious child, and I see no benefit in remaining innocent and ignorant, so I very matter-of-factly respond, "Of course."

Quillsh busies himself cleaning up the pancake, which most likely could have been eaten without any significant damage to either of us, but its disposal takes him several seconds with which he uses to formulate a proper response. "She was killed in a terrible car accident four years ago," he informs me, ladling creamy batter onto the sizzling pan.

I absorb this for a moment, then conclude, "So it goes."

The ladle jerks, disturbing the perfect circle of cooking dough; Quillsh scowls at the imperfection, as if the utensil moved of its own accord and created it, and was the reason I got my hands on Slaughterhouse-Five. "When did you read that?"

I wiggle my toes thoughtfully, then reply, "Last Tuesday. I rather enjoyed it."

"Dare I ask how much of it you understood?" His tone is disapproving, as if I have read the most unsavory piece of literature in his library.

I tilt my head to the side and my bangs tickle my nose. "Quite enough for my age, I should think, and that which I didn't understand, I looked up in the encyclopedia."

"In the future, I must ask that you inform me of your choices before reading them. I don't think that book suitable for a child. It deals with many aspects of life that I would like to introduce to you gradually, such as those of violence, sexuality, and death."

"I found it quite enlightening. The Tralfamadorians had several interesting philosophies."

"Yes, interesting they were, but also flawed and not applicable to modern life, as I dearly hope you recognized, particularly in their 'so it goes' mantra regarding death. I do not want to hear you use it in conversation again."

Quillsh is being unusually defensive, and I quickly decide that I do not enjoy it when he acts in this way. "The pancake is burning."

While Quillsh doesn't curse, his current expression conveys the same sentiments, and I wonder if the cause of his irritation is my question regarding Marie, or his newfound knowledge of my literary escapades. As he scrapes the blackened dough off the pan, I decide to pursue the former speculation first, and inquire, "How did Marie manage to get into a car accident?"

"Are you on that again?" he mutters roughly, throwing a second pancake out. "It was simply an accident. On a particularly rainy November night, she was driving on a winding road and she hydroplaned, sending her car off the road." Onto the frying pan goes another attempt at breakfast. "She was a dear friend of mine, and I deeply mourned the loss of her presence in my life. I hadn't realized that you remembered her."

I rest my chin on my knees, tucked in to my chest. "She was my mother, was she not?"

This time when Quillsh starts, he is not touching any sort of culinary instrument to this pancake, and therefore does not ruin it. "Something of the sort. Am I correct in assuming that you are familiar with the concept of adoption?"

"Yes." I make the next leap without prompting. "So I was her adopted son, then?"

"Yes."

"And after she died, I became your adopted son."

A very slight pause. "Yes."

A far longer pause as Quillsh successfully flips the pancake and I assure myself that, yes, my ache to know the truth is more powerful than my desire to retain the concept of a flawless Quillsh. "Did you happen to have anything to do with her death?"

"What do you mean by that?" is all the confirmation I need, and the words tumble as icy snowflakes on my shoulders.

"I won't turn you in to the authorities, if that's what you are concerned about." The snowflakes fall on my lips and I lick them off; they taste like lemon drops.

"I'm not concerned about anything of the sort!" Quillsh appears genuinely shocked, though I reckon that it's not for the reason he is attempting to convey. "I'm terribly sorry if I've given you the wrong impression, or if I've caused you to believe that your detective games should be applied to real life, but I had nothing to do with Marie's death."

He is quite obviously in denial at the moment, and there is no chance of his telling me the truth, so I decide that I will ask him about it when I am older and more trustworthy. "Of course, Quillsh," I chirp pleasantly and hop off the stool. "Let's breakfast." I glance over my shoulder at him and smirk, proudly announcing, "Intransitive verb."

He smiles weakly at this unnecessary bit of grammar thrown into the conversation, as I knew he would, then slides the last pancake into the insulated container beside him, and brings the food to the table as I clamber onto my usual chair. The meal proceeds without delay, and finishes without trouble, and when he pats my unruly hair fondly before cleaning up, I am not disturbed by the fact that a murderer is the closest thing I have to a father.

I am not disturbed because I don't allow myself to feel so. Feeling disturbed would benefit me in no way, as I will never turn this disturbance into an arrest or another action placing me at distance from him. Removing Quillsh from my life will also remove shelter and pancakes and Kurt Vonnegut and intransitive verbs—not to mention, I am quite fond of him, though emotion shouldn't be considered when a logical argument is being carried out—so I do not even consider proceeding as such.

Instead, I decide that I will treat my relatively new father's murder of my relatively old mother in the way that a Tralfamadorian would. So it goes.

I am not limited to three dimensions, I tell myself as Quillsh picks up my dishes and lets me pick out a fruit for dessert. I can see all of the past, present, and future, and in the grand scheme of things, a murder is just a murder and so it goes.

Quillsh serves me lunch and dessert and snack and dinner and dessert and midnight snack, but there is no poison in it, even though I have figured out his secret and he has a motivation. However, even if there was a trace of arsenic and I am about to keel over and die, so it goes, because I am not human and I do not mind.

I am not human as Quillsh tucks me in for bed and presses a kiss to my forehead and I shudder quietly somewhere deep in my spine, because I am not human; I am Tralfamadorian; I am not human.

So it goes.

* * *

_Author's Note: Whoaaa. Twice in one day. Hurrah for quick updates!_

_The "So it goes" bit is taken directly from_ Slaughterhouse Five _by Kurt Vonnegut, which is a rather fabulous book, in my humble opinion, so kudos to Mr. Kurt Vonnegut. I encourage you all to read it._

_Reviewers get to share a pancake breakfast with L. Yum._


	6. Eight

I am eight years old the first time I decide that being human is a bore. I have been awake for the past 38 hours, have not eaten or drank in the past 25 hours, have not breathed or blinked for the past 69…70…71 seconds, and I am very proud of myself.

Quillsh walks in just as I'm pushing two full minutes without closing my eyes or inhaling and his entrance breaks my concentration. The world goes black for a fraction of a second and my diaphragm flexes. My shoulders droop; I'll have to start all over again.

"I brought you some tea and donuts, Lawliet," my guardian informs me, pushing a cart that, indeed, is decked with silverware and delicate plates and sweets. "I thought we could dine together."

I spin my chair around to face him, drawing my knees tighter to my chest. "Thank you for your consideration, Quillsh," I say around my thumb, which I have been absently gnawing on in a mix of habit and hunger. "But you may have to dine alone tonight." My teeth break through the thin skin and blood touches my tongue. I remove my finger from my mouth, trying to ignore the bitter, metallic taste that reminds me that I am failing at dispelling my humanity, and that failure is unacceptable.

Quillsh's eyes watch through bifocals as crimson seeps along my cuticle, then dart to the trashcan where a day's worth of food has been thrown out. He doesn't berate me for being wasteful, or exhale an offended sigh, but instead calmly inquires, "Does the food disagree with your stomach?"

I shake my head and correct, "I've decided that being a human is detrimental to my success as a student."

If Quillsh is shocked by my conclusion, he doesn't show it. "How so?"

My toes twiddle thoughtfully. "Well, such actions as sleeping, eating, and breathing are a waste of energy. I would prefer to become a creature that didn't require these things."

The steadily multiplying creases in the middle-aged gentleman's forehead deepen. "Did you have a creature in mind?"

My thumb returns to my mouth as I search for the proper response. "I should think that some kind of robot or cyborg would be quite nice."

The highlighted wrinkles on Quillsh's face shift to a more cheerful set. "You've been reading science fiction lately," he surmises rather proudly.

I nod. "Isaac Asimov is quite good."

"I agree. But, Lawliet," He walks over and places a hand on my shoulder, "don't you remember? Andrew _wanted _to be human."

"I suppose so," I acknowledge reluctantly.

"In addition, Asimov continually brought up the technophobia surrounding the robots, the slave-master relationship between the robots and humans, as well as the limited intelligence of the robots and their general inability to—"

"Thank you, Quillsh." I cut him off and jump off my chair. "I now see that the idea was foolish."

He seems startled at my interruption, as I usually absorb his thoughts as silently and diligently as a sponge, but he quickly recovers. "Thank you for discussing it with me."

I have not truly discussed it with him. I've simply stopped him from wasting time attempting to convince me to change my mind on something I am so firm on. "I'm going to my room now," I announce, slipping my fingers into my pockets.

"At least take some food with you," he calls after me, but I'm already out the door and making my way down the hallway.

Halfway to my bedroom, I realize that I have lied to Quillsh. The revelation is quite shocking, as I cannot recall ever having lied to another person before. The act is so utterly human that I add "perpetual honesty"to the list of thing I have to improve on.

I have no intention of giving up my desire to shed my human qualities, because of the reason I haven't mentioned to Quillsh: unlike my parents and Marie and all other flimsy, ephemeral humans on this planet, machines don't die.

* * *

_Author's Note: And this, my dear friends, was the chapter that started it all. It's rather short (as are several of the ones following it), and it evokes some fond reminiscing of the days when I was just beginning to explore the marvel that is L's mind. Now, I'm not usually a weird writer who brings a pen and paper with them to the shower, just in case they think of a lovely series of words while washing behind their ears (no offense to anyone who actually does this). BUT, on the night that this fanfic was conceived, I did just that. The pen and paper journeyed with me to the shower and without them, this fic might never have broken through the 1000 words barrier. D: What a horrifying thought!_

_For fear of having a longer author's note than chapter, I shall stop here, and simply invite reviewers to enage in an intense staring contest with a determinedly unblinking L. Good luck. :D_


	7. Nine

I am nine years old the first time I get a cavity. I find it one morning when munching on particularly hard candies hurts my teeth as much as their name warns. The pain is new and intriguing and makes me continue biting with the tooth and prodding it with my tongue, a pastime that amuses me while working for nearly six hours. But by the seventh hour, the left side of my mouth is throbbing badly enough that I don't dare let my bottom and top teeth so much as brush against each other.

Watari, as I now am to call him, what with the increasing importance of our anonymity, knows me too well, and has discovered my problem by the eighth hour.

Idly sucking on a fork that I have just used to carefully consume a slice of cheesecake, I listen to him brief me a new investigation for me to work on. For the past year, he has been introducing me to local unsolved police cases, mainly burglaries, their importance and severity exponentially escalating. The current one involves blackmail, hostages, casualties, and mental instability. Some of the newly revealed details are quite alarming and disturbing for a child who has barely completed a decade of life, even if this child is as hardened as me, so I clamp my teeth down on the fork to redirect the tornado whirling in my stomach.

I positively howl.

"Lawliet!" Watari exclaims, forgetting to use my alias in his alarm.

Clutching at my jaw and flushing in shame at this terrible show of weakness and humanity, I retreat deeper into my chair, curling my toes and pulling my knees nearly to my chin.

Watari demands that I let him look in my mouth, using such a familiarly authoritative tone that it is like he's flicked a switch, and my jaw swings open. He pulls open one of the drawers in the room and removes a small flashlight from the myriad of objects filling it. Trepidation mounts in my gut as the beam of light peruses my mouth, then stops on my lower right molars and Watari begins clicking his tongue. My fingernails dig into my knees and my toes curl over the side of the chair like it's my lifeline. Watari pulls back, leans against the counter, and announces my predicament.

"You have a cavity."

It takes me a moment to process this. Cavity is another word for dental caries. This means that my tooth is decaying, rotting. Vegetables rot. Corpses rot. And now, Lawliet—no, L rots. My knuckles turn white.

From Watari's anxious expression, I assume that my face has gone the same hue as my knuckles. He flips his mouth into a grin that crinkles his eyes behind his glasses. "Luckily for you, I know the best dentist in the area. He's an old colleague of mine. We'll get that cavity taken care of in no time." He taps my nose with his finger, an affectionate gesture that he's never used before, which causes me to believe that something causing me great discomfort will soon occur.

As is true nearly 92% of the time, I am correct.

The trip to this colleague of Watari's the next morning is not in any way pleasant. This colleague is the same age as Watari, but that is just about where the resemblance ends. This new man seems to have the barest amount of intelligence required to work in a medical field, and it takes him thrice the time as Watari to deduce the nature of my problem. He asks too many personal questions, all of which are delivered with such a faked air of interest that I would prefer that he stay silent instead of torturing all three of us.

The procedure that follows is even more grating than his personality. I am coerced to lay back with a blinding light intentionally shone into my face. The chair is so slanted that when I try to pull my knees to my chest, I feel as if I am about to slide off it altogether. So I lay my feet—which Watari have forced into unbearably binding shoes—on the seat and pull them as close to the rest of my body as possible, dig my fingers into my ankles until I bleed, and stare at the light until I can convince myself that its brilliance is the cause of the blurriness of my vision.

I sit in the front seat with Watari on the way back home, and he asks what I thought about the dentist. I ponder this for a few moments before removing the gauze from my mouth and answering.

"I have nothing in particular against your colleague, and I'm sure that under other circumstances, I would find him somewhat tolerable, but recent events cause me to believe that Dante would have added a tenth circle to hell if he had been in my place this morning."

Watari is not offended, but instead throws back his head and laughs, as I had expected of him. "Have you rethought your sugar intake, then?" he inquires once he has dabbed at the corners of his eyes.

I shrug, the collar of my loose shirt slipping dangerously low on my shoulders.

He sighs, exasperation coloring his breath, and I turn to stare through the rain at the melting city.

I am fully aware of the destructive impact on my health of such a high dessert intake, but there is something about sweets that attracts me. I am a machine, and I have a duty to run on calories in their crudest—or purest, depending on the particular shade of rose glasses the beholder is wearing—form in order to survive.

* * *

_Author's Note: Hurrah for Scaity, who has unearthed herself from a burial ground of schoolwork and taken the time to be my lovely beta once more! Thanks!_

_I can't say I blame L for wanting to continue eating sweet stuff. I'm quite fond of sweet stuff, particularly pumpkin pie, though I must admit that my reasoning for liking it isn't nearly as complex as L's._

_Reviewers get to share a dessert of their choice with L (and brush their teeth afterwards :D)._


	8. Eleven

_Author's Note: One more little chapter before going to bed (i.e. preparing for finals until midnight). Enjoy!_

* * *

I am eleven years old the first time my computer really crashes. I grudgingly blink drooping eyelids, and all at once, everything is gone: innumerable hours of work, completed with the help of equally innumerable nights passed forfeiting sleep and confectionaries consumed with the same continuity as a chain-smoker.

But it is not only my time that is wasted; every moment spent uselessly gnawing at my much abused thumbnail gives killers time to continue their bloodthirsty rampage.

The cause is a virus accidentally passed through an email, but I do not know this at the time and am convinced that I have done something wrong. My conscience weighs me down, as heavy as lead weights tied to my ankles as I am pulled into a murky sea of guilt. I do not move from my chair for a full eight minutes; do not pull my thumb out from between my lips, even as the shredded skin grows wrinkled and tasteless; barely even blink or breathe or allow my heart to beat—and when it does beat, it thumps _fail-ure, fail-ure_—in some childish hope that I am surely too old to possess, that if I do not disturb the silence in my office, time will rewind itself and recover all that I have lost.

Watari finds me when he comes with a silver tray, bringing me tea—which, in any other circumstance, he would usually scoldingly joke is more dissolved sugar cubes than beverage—but I do my best to ignore his presence. If I'm just a _little_ _bit_ stiller, it will all come back; if I'm just a _little bit _quieter, it will all come back. I scroll through the list of adjectives as the aged man rests a hand on my shoulder, and persist in searching for the magic—even though I don't believe in such things—word: smarter, older, more mature, more complacent, generally just more _perfect_.

It takes another three and a half minutes for Watari to convince me to retire for the night while he takes a look at the computer, and another three and a half hours for me to fall asleep, which I am only able to achieve because I hear the familiar whirring of the computer starting up and Watari's victorious sigh.

However, it takes far longer for the disconcerting feeling lining the pit of my stomach to dissipate. I have prided myself in being similar to that computer, requiring little to no sustenance, whether in the form of food or sleep or laughter or human contact. It is a shock to realize that the computer—and therefore, I, as well—can crash.


	9. Thirteen

I am thirteen years old the first time the world begins to recognize L as a machine.

This morning, Watari announces that he has finally perfected his voice altering program and created a proper background for the video feed. The L is a bit elaborate for my taste and it fits Watari more than me, but the simple black and white color scheme is suitably mechanical. I inform him that I approve of his choice, and he smiles proudly. Wrinkles fan out in every which direction on his face, and I smile fondly back at him.

Watari arranges a headset on me, ignoring my squirming as it flattens my unruly hair, and instructs, "Try it out."

The microphone is too close to my mouth, even after I bend it a few inches away, and my hearing is uncomfortably stifled, but I acquiesce for Watari's sake. "Hello—"

My breath catches in my throat. "Hello," I force myself to complete the sentence, "I am L." I feel as though I am about to pass out from delight.

The voice coming out of the speakers is high and low at the same time, masking nearly all inflection and emotion by buzzing and whispering and warping. I sound nothing like myself. It is absurdly marvelous.

I clutch the microphone closer and repeat the sentence with an American accent: "Hello, I am L."

This sounds even better, so I try in French this time: "Bonjour, je m'appelle L."

In Japanese: "Konnichiwa, watashi wa L desu."

In Latin, just for the fun of it: "Salve, mihi nomen est L."

Watari chuckles at this last one, and I laugh along with him. This seems to confuse the program and it sputters out a series of metallic chokes. The sound stops my chortling, and I prod at the microphone with a curious finger. "Ha ha ha." I enunciate each syllable carefully, which seems to please the computer more; it spits out synthetic laughter that I would love to be able to imitate on my own. I try again.

"Hee hee hee.

"Kya ha ha ha.

"Muah ha ha ha.

"Bwoh ho ho ho.

"Hyuk hyuk hyuk.

"Henh henh henh."

My last attempt turns out the best, and I laugh my ordinary laugh once more; the computer coughs.

To my dismay, Watari clears his throat and informs me that it is time for breakfast. Before I can protest that I'm not hungry, and that even if I was, food could surely wait a short while, he removes the headset, snagging and yanking out a lock or two. I wince a little, but don't protest the hair removal or the force feeding. My elderly guardian, who only a minute ago was grinning at my antics, now has anxiety etched into his brow and trouble buried in the frown lines at the corners of his mouth. This is his worrying face, the expression he wears when he is concerned about the wellbeing of another human being.

I quickly scroll through the possibilities: Watari has no living relatives that he is in contact with, and his wife passed away long ago; if he or I were in danger, I would've noticed before now; prominent government officials aren't nearly important enough to evoke such unhappiness. The only possibility left is one of the orphans.

"Is there a problem at Wammy's House?" I venture, spinning myself around to face him with my toes.

He freezes at the entrance to the kitchen, then turns around and gives me a small, sad smile. Something in my abdomen feels punctured. "Nothing you need to worry about," he answers, but that isn't an answer at all and we both know it. I blink at him slowly to convey this. He sighs and his spine wilts tiredly.

"Let's discuss it over waffles," I suggest, and send my chair rolling across the room with a heave against the desk. Watari's mouth becomes an amused overturned parenthesis as I skid across the floor, my feet clinging to the edge of the seat. I crawl to a stop a foot away from the doorway and, when Watari moves out of the way, I grab onto the doorframe and propel myself into the next room.

"Aren't you a bit old for that?" he scolds good-naturedly. I shrug silently, using the furniture and walls to maneuver my way to the table, and he drops the subject as he rifles through the freezer.

This chair is more comfortable than the wooden ones in the kitchen, but more importantly than that, I know that Watari always smiles when he sees me acting childishly; I think it's because it helps him forget that he's getting old.

Twenty minutes later, I am sucking the whipped cream off a strawberry and letting the waffles on my plate cool as they drown in maple syrup. On the other side of the table, Watari is cutting his breakfast into neatly sized squares and eating them without toppings. When he is finished, I let him place his dishes in the sink without interruption, and then remind, "You said that we could discuss the orphanage now."

"I said nothing of the sort," he corrects at once.

"Your failure to deny my request was as good as an assent," I counter.

"That is quite untrue."

I shrug and lick the powdered sugar off my fork, making sure that my eyes are appropriately large when he turns around again. Now that I'm getting older, it's becoming difficult to make my expression appear innocent rather than mentally unstable or exophthalmic, but this time, I thankfully seem to succeed.

Watari sighs. "I'll get the file."

I allow myself to blink, and mutter through a mouthful of waffle, "Thank you."

"Beyond Birthday, known simply as B at the orphanage," he introduces, taking a seat and placing a thick file in front of me. I lift the front flap with one finger and peer down at the birth certificate interestedly. "We have discussed him briefly before; as you may recall, he is rather friendly with A."

I do recall this conversation; it had centered on the problem close friendships posed in such an environment as Wammy's house, and our decision was unanimous: they were not to be allowed. When one of the orphans grew up to be L, he would have to be quite a solitary person, and it would be beneficial to nurture this nature as early as possible. Besides, a little bit of competitiveness never hurt anyone.

"Still?" I inquire, disappointment coloring my voice; I had hoped that Roger would be more attentive than that.

Watari nods. "But unfortunately the problem is worse than that. It seems that B has been conducting some rather disconcerting experiments, and has persuaded A to join him. Roger has found them conducting vivisections on small animals."

I am quite incredulous and disgusted at first, as I have never heard of eight and nine year olds conducting vivisections on anything other than Barbie dolls, but there's a first time for everything, and I quickly collect myself.

"Remove them from the orphanage," I decide at once, slowly scraping lumps of sugar off my plate with my fork; Watari winces at the sound. "Murderers cannot denounce murderers anymore than hypocrites can denounce hypocrites."

"I understand your reasoning, however I disagree with you." I stop scraping, and frown up at him. "A has great promise, and without B, I fear that he will fail to perform at his best."

My sparse brows lower. "It would be a disgrace to have such children as my successors."

"This is not your decision to make. A and B will remain at Wammy's house, and that is final."

My infuriated gaze holds his steady one, but I do not win this staring match, nor do I expect to win any other anytime soon, so I whirl my chair around and shove away from the table. I have almost finished storming out angrily in a stellar rendition of a teenage temper tantrum, complete with wheels squeaking furiously, but I stop at the door because I am curious, and we all know what happened to the cat.

"What made you sad earlier today?" I ask, steadying myself against the doorframe. Watari is silent behind me, determining how much to tell me, I assume, and I wait patiently.

"When you were trying out different laughs," he eventually says quietly, "your last one sounded awfully similar to Beyond's."

_Henh henh henh._

I shudder and roll out of the room.

Late that night, as I am falling asleep at my desk, I think about Beyond Birthday and the computer that was able to replicate a killer's laugh, and wonder if a machine would best replace me as L.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thank you to both of my lovely betas, Scaity and chibi-hime123!_

_I don't know if there's anything like this where you guys live, but I just went with my friends to this enormous Halloween event called Haunted Trails. It's run by a local university and it's rather exceptional. There's the trail itself, which goes through a pitch black forest with roots ready to trip you and costumed people ready to frighten your pants off, and then there's a 2400 sq ft haunted maze filled with spooky people and decorations and even strobe lights! I didn't get to go to these this year since I waited in line for nearly an hour, but there's also fortune telling and hay rides and food and kiddie craft events and it's all simply wonderful. So, if there IS something similar to this nearby (or this very event; hi, fellow Washingtonians!), I strongly encourage you all to go._

_Happy Weekend Before Halloween! Only seven days left! (which also means only seven more days of this fanfiction D:)_


	10. Fourteen

_Warning: If you enjoy meat, and want to continue enjoying meat in the near future, note that this chapter has the potential to turn you off meat. Enjoy! :D_

* * *

I am fourteen years old when I begin to regularly take supplementary vitamins. As of recently, I refuse to allow my diet to consist of more than tea, baked goodies, confectionaries, certain fruits, and sugar cubes.

I've been a vegetarian ever since I saw my first set of detailed autopsy photos. I haven't been able to eat corn since I saw the grinning skull of a teenager who had been buried underground for three years. I cannot even consider consuming pasta, especially spaghetti, after seeing the matted blonde hair of a beaten and asphyxiated seven year old girl. Cheese has the odor of something that is rotting, and a similar texture, I should imagine. Salty foods taste of tears, and bitter ones of blood, so those are off the menu as well. Certain spoons are also strangely, bloodily metallic, so I make sure that Watari buys me an extremely large supply of the good ones, just in case they ever stop being produced.

Watari has tried on numerous occasions to get the reason for my pickiness out of me, but I've also heard him and Roger conversing about the state of my mental health on numerous occasions, and I cannot afford to be sent to the insane asylum.

Sometimes, with my teenage mind, which is ever so prone to creativity and exaggeration, I wonder what would happen if I did decide to talk to Watari about my problem.

I imagine him coincidentally deciding for us to have a sit down dinner together, just as my resolve to come clean strengthens. We will be seated at the table, the lights dramatically dimmed. Watari will smile at me, then lift the mysteriously covered silver platter gleaming in the center of the table, revealing a glistening chicken.

My eyes will glint sharply to his, chin raised petulantly. "I'm a vegetarian," I will remind him flintily.

Watari will sigh and return my childish, brilliant gaze with an aged, intense one of his own. "I've had quite enough of this, L," he will declare, absolutely exasperated. "You cannot continue to so thoroughly deprive yourself of important vitamins and minerals." I will shake my head persistently, even as Watari picks up a knife, ridiculously large and shiny in this fantasy, and begins to slice into the roasted fowl.

But I will not be able to stand the sight of the razor edge cutting into the steaming tissue, still tinged with red, emotions screaming out of the incision, reminiscent of the last few seconds of terror before the grim reaper descended brutally on this innocent creature. My head will whip to the side, bangs obscuring the majority of my face as I shield my eyes from the horrific sight that is Watari blithely serving dinner.

"What is the matter with you?" he will demand, pausing in this massacre of the bird's corpse.

"Nothing," I will mumble into my shoulder, determination's knees locking and feet faltering.

"Alright then." Watari will serve the slice onto my plate and I will bravely peek out at it from behind my wispy black locks. This will, of course, turn out to be a terrible mistake, and I will be immediately assaulted by waking nightmares.

_Moist lower lips quiver; enormous eyes glisten with tears, unshed and petrified; blood has rushed out of plump faces, sweet and soft; chubby digits clutch at comforting cloth, whether in the form of a security blanket, or a velveteen stuffed animal, or the nightgown of a mother, sometimes trembling as well, but other times frozen with death._

_Maniacal grins stretch and crack lips closer to ears; shaking and dilated pupils seek out victims with the accuracy of a sniper rifle; gaunt skin clings to cheekbones, hollow cheeks shadowed in the barest glimmer of light; eager fingertips taste metal, in the form of a butcher knife, or perhaps a pistol, or a machete, or the chillingly clichéd chainsaw._

_Mouths frantically gasp oxygen out of the air, pleading for one more moment of life, or yearning for it all to end; eyelids flutter shut, or squeeze tight to escape reality, or maybe are never given the chance to close at all; expressions will never again be allowed tranquility, and will be forever locked in a dying scream; all religions coalesce into one at the end, conflicting deities and ideals and histories failing to matter anymore, because nothing matters when you are about to die, because no one wants to die, but there's nothing anyone can do to escape death, except possibly to pray to any god, all the gods, even if they don't exist, just in the desperate hope that something will be better after this._

My gaze tears from the slab of meat up to meet Watari's, which are suddenly very worried. In my imagination, I utter this next line with the utmost gravity, which will later astound me, because at the time, I don't even consider how humorous it sounds: "I refuse to eat meat. It creates the sensation of seeing dead people."

After this, the scene always plays out differently because I cannot imagine how Watari would react if I ever told him this. If I'm in a particularly sentimental mood, we collapse into tears together and he counsels the monsters away. At other times, Watari transforms into an uncaring beast who, with Roger's assistance, locks me up in a padded room with shock treatments and a straightjacket. Even more frightening is when I imagine that Watari simply stares at me for a long moment, then blinks, adjusts his glasses, clears his throat, mumbles something about preparing something else for dinner, and _nothing else changes_.

Sometimes I think of this in place of sleeping. Then I wake up and go catch criminals, many of whom I can't help but notice are barely less human than I.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thank you, beta chibi-hime123!_

_Wow. L has quite the messed up diet. I don't eat meat or corn either, after dissecting a pigeon in science class (i.e., being in the same room as other people who were dissecting a pigeon; I could barely watch, let alone do the actual dissecting). People thought I was acting absolutely ridiculous, but it was quite a traumatizing experience! D:_

_I have finals this week, which includes FOUR essays to write, as well as monster decks of history and biology flashcards to study, and a Calculus test that is going to confuse my pants off. Sooooo, while I will do my very very best to get chapters 12, 13, and 15 written on schedule, I cannot absolutely promise to have them done in a timely fashion. I will do my best though! --determined--_

_Reviews = encouragement = completed chapters :D_


	11. Fifteen

I am fifteen years old the first time I permanently discard a human characteristic. It is the middle of July, a tremendous heat wave is sweeping across central Europe, and the air conditioning in the hotel has broken down. Watari has to prepare a considerable amount of security measures before we can switch hotels, so, for now, he has generously paid the staff to gather enough fans to cool the Sahara desert.

The situation is tolerable aside from the tremendous amount of hair whipping around and obscuring my vision, and my sweet teeth whining in my mouth. The latter of these deficiencies can be easily remedied, so I turn and begin to call for Watari.

However, as I holler directly into the fan sitting beside my computer, I am quite distracted by the way the fan warps my voice. I start, then cock my head curiously and lean closer. "Hello," I drone, just as I did years ago, "I am L."

The effect is far subtler than Watari's program, even its roughest versions, but I am still intrigued, as the other fans are just loud enough that no one else will be able to hear me.

I sit in front of the fan and sob for exactly three minutes straight because for quite a while now, I've been curious as to what it would sound like for a machine to cry. After that, I never cry again.

* * *

_Author's Note: Reeeeeal short chapter. Longer one coming soon._


	12. Seventeen

I am seventeen years old when I realize that I have become a compulsive liar.

* * *

"Have you taken your vitamins today?"

"Yes."

(I didn't take them yesterday either.)

"Did you manage to get any sleep last night?"

"A full four hours."

(I haven't slept four continuous hours since a week ago.)

"Are you certain? Your dark circles seem abnormally severe."

"They're the same as they have always been."

(I would have no way of knowing this, as I do not look in the mirror if I can help it.)

* * *

I cannot remember when my aspiration to speak the truth and nothing but the truth morphed into this twisted compulsion to perjure. Perhaps it began when I subconsciously realized that I would never be able to renounce lying completely.

Under Watari's tutelage, I have become quite the perfectionist, and I will admit that failure saps the motivation right out of me. I have something of an all or nothing outlook on life, which is becoming increasingly hard to balance. I must quickly think of a solution to the problem that this poses, or the precarious Jenga tower of my philosophy will inevitably fall.

* * *

"Have you ascertained whether there is any solid evidence against the suspect?"

"I don't believe there is. However, instruct the police to continue discreetly monitoring him, just in case."

(The police are absolute idiots. The suspect has a motive and a weak alibi, but he is also very careful, a prized member of society, and a smooth talker. I just need one more conclusive piece of data for everything to fall into place.)

"L! There has been another murder and there's no doubt that the suspect is responsible. The police have arrested him."

"That's good to hear. I'm glad that he's in custody."

(Just as planned.)

"You weren't waiting for this to happen, were you?"

"That would be immoral, Watari."

(Would it?)

* * *

Or perhaps it began when I discovered how delightful dishonesty can make one feel. The sin of the act can quite effectively suck the joy out of lying, but if one can get past that, if one can firmly establish that there is no God, and no reason to adhere to the norms of society, then it can become quite the sport.

I am admittedly a tad sadistic by nature, and perhaps a bit of a megalomaniac, and I do find it exceptionally interesting to tell the people around me untruths and observe their reactions. They are like little lab rats scurrying around a maze that I spin for them, hopelessly dimwitted and struggling to find their way around, inevitably running into dead ends that crush their morale.

But, on occasion, I happen upon particularly intelligent lab rats, who adeptly weave their way closer and closer to the finish line. It is absolutely marvelous to watch, and truly gives me hope for the human race, but they too, inexorably take a tumble, and then I must start all over again.

Sometimes I wonder if Watari is a colleague, or just another test subject.

* * *

"What did you say to the suspect? He looks absolutely terrified."

"How strange. I barely said a word."

(To convince him to confess and possibly—less than a 3% chance, but a chance all the same—lower his sentence, I related at great length the sensation one goes through when sitting in the death chair, and the controversy surrounding the lethal injection, imagining aloud the excruciating pain one would go through if the concerns were valid.)

"The police cannot find the recording of your conversation with the suspect, and neither can I. What did you do?"

"I'm insulted that you would accuse me of interfering somehow. It was probably a mistake of theirs."

(Though it took me quite a while, I eventually managed to hack into the police database and delete every single trace of our discussion.)

"_Lawliet!_ The suspect committed_ suicide_! Bloody hell—what did you say to him?!"

"Quillsh, false accusations and a harsh tone will get you nowhere."

(...I do feel a bit guilty about the suicide.)

* * *

Now that I am nearly an adult, Watari has refrained from meddling too much in the ethics of my decisions. However, he—understandably—seems to feel that this particular way of governing myself has gone too far.

* * *

"L. I pride myself in having raised you to be a bright, strong, proper, judicious young man. However, your recent actions have caused me to question how good a job I have done. In light of the suicide that was committed under your encouragement, I would like you to reflect on the veracity of some of your claims. I would also like you to be more attentive to what you say in the future, and to refrain from living in such a deceitful manner."

Silence on my part.

"Let me remind you that you claimed that A and B would not be suitable successors because of the vivisections they conducted as children. They were murderers, you told me, and therefore could not judge other murderers. Has your stance on this changed?"

"No."

"Consider this then: through your dishonesty, a man has killed himself. That means, though indirectly, you killed him. _You_ are a murderer. A man, who, at this very moment, would still have been speaking and eating and breathing and living, and possibly even feeling remorse and repenting and gaining entrance to heaven by accepting Jesus as his savior—"

"Do not dare bring your religion into this, Watari."

"—if not for you, is now dead."

Silence on my part.

"The next time you even consider not telling the truth, think about that."

A pause as Watari begins to leave the room.

"He was going to die regardless of what I did."

A pause as Watari struggles not to lose his temper.

"We are all going to die someday, Lawliet."

* * *

I am beginning to wonder whether the only way to master the art of lying is with a human's discretion.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thank you, beta, chibi-hime123, for editing this chapter and the last one._

_Whoaaaa. Attack of the page breaks. I was certainly not planning that. :D_

_Today I went to a Halloween skate party and it was fabulous. My costume this year is Belle from Beauty and the Beast, but I couldn't exactly skate very well in a dress that goes to my feet, so I had to come up with something else. I just bought this new black and gold lacy dress that is slightly Misa-ish (though less, to put it nicely, suggestive), so I wore it with fishnets and a giant cross necklace that I randomly had, and put my hair in pigtails, and voila! A skating friendly, Death Note themed Halloween costume! :D_

_I am in such a Halloweeny mood right now! I haven't had real, sugary, crappy, non-chocolatey candy in quite a while and I'm totally craving it. Yummmmm...._

_Okay, question of the night: What is your favorite kind of Halloween candy?_


	13. Nineteen

I am nineteen years old the first time I discover that I am technically dead, and that it was Watari who killed me.

The realization regarding my death is laughably timed; today is, in fact, my birthday. It is perhaps even more fitting that today is Halloween.

(I decided long ago that if God does exist, He must have a cruel sense of humor.)

The digits flitting away on the computer clock are nearing 9:00. As a sort of birthday treat to myself, I am taking a break from my current investigation, and sifting through the local police database for unsolved cases to fiddle around with.

One case in particular catches my eye, as the first name of the woman involved is Marie. I am not the sort of person who is easily shaken by coincidences such as this, but it is my birthday, so I click on the file. I do not expect in the least for this Marie to be _my _Marie, but perhaps it will be therapeutic to help a woman, even postmortem, with the same name as the mother I couldn't save.

I have succeeded in completely convincing myself that I do not know this Marie, so it nearly knocks me out of my chair when I spot another familiar name among the slew of data cascading across the screen.

_L Lawliet_

At first, I think that sleep deprivation and malnourishment has finally gotten to me and that I have begun hallucinating. But then I blink several times and assure myself that I am not going insane, and that I truly have stumbled upon the secret of my life before Watari.

My eyes skim through the information so quickly that they can barely process what they are reading. But then they pause, and slow down, and my lower jaw forgets how to remain in its proper place, directly below my top teeth. My fingers stab at the keyboard and the printer begins to whir and spit out text covered paper as I yell Watari's name at the top of my lungs.

I grab the stack of paper and dash into the main room of the hotel suite. Watari has jumped to his feet, the newspaper he was reading abandoned on the ground, and is wearing an expression of the utmost alarm. "What happened?" he exclaims, yanking open a drawer to reveal a handgun.

The sight of the handgun boils my blood more than I could ever have thought possible. What would Watari do with a gun? Would he truly kill someone with it if our identity was in danger? Of course. Of course, he would. Watari is already a murderer. I knew this as a child. How could I possibly have forgotten?

My hands are trembling as I throw the papers onto the coffee table, the fresh ink slightly smeared. "What is this?"

Watari relaxes at once, sliding the now ominous drawer shut, but then his brow furrows. He opens his mouth, looking like he wants to scold me for making a fuss about nothing when he got the gun out and everything, but I cut him off.

"What is this?" I repeat.

My voice frightens even me.

Watari sits back down on the couch, pushes at his glasses, and then picks up the top sheet. He blanches.

All of a sudden I'm not certain that I want to know the truth anymore, but I've made a pledge to have more honesty in my life, and I plan on at least trying to follow through with pledge.

The silence crackles through our eardrums for several more moments, only broken by the slight crinkling and whispering of paper. Watari sighs. "L," he begins, careful and conciliatory, but I refuse to have any of that.

"You told me twelve years ago that Marie's death was an accident. But now I find _this_"—I jab ferociously at the papers in his hands—"and it turns out that Marie was murdered."

Watari is putting a great deal of effort into looking me in the eyes with a poker face, but I am a stellar liar and can tell when others are lying in a heartbeat, and Watari's guilt is getting the better of him, so it is all in vain.

"Twelve years ago you also said that you didn't murder Marie. But this police report says that a toddler named L Lawlietis _dead_ right now, killed in this car crash that was supposedly an accident, but so clearly _not _an accident that even this most brainless bunch of officers could tell that the tires had been strategically shot out at just the right time, in just the right place, to make her go shooting off the edge of acliff and into the ocean!"

Tears are glistening in the corners of Watari's eyes and they are as painful as icicles in my chest.

"Why didn't you tell me?!" I scream.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes hoarsely. "I am truly so sorry. I planned on telling you sometime, but…"

"But you never thought I'd figure out it?" I snap. "Thought I'd go on trusting you idly like some sort of careless idiot, never prying into my background, never figuring out that you're a murderer?"

"You know it's not like that."

"Of course not." Sarcasm infuses my voice with its sickly sweet tang. "You're not a murderer in the least. After all, you hired someone else to do the dirty work."

"No, I admit that I acted immorally! I just…I couldn't afford to lose you," he explains desperately, scrambling to his feet. "The world couldn't afford to lose L!"

"So you kidnapped me." My lip rises into a sneer and I straighten my back to match his height. "You kidnapped me and killed my mother like the lowlife that you are in order to raise a little detective to have for all your own. Did you kill all the orphans' parents too?"

"L, be rational. You're letting your emotions get to you. Please calm down for a moment."

"Don't you dare tell me to calm down! Only recently you lectured me for causing a man to commit suicide. You called me a murderer. And now…" I trail off and laugh a laugh that makes Watari flinch in horror; it is far too similar to B's, I imagine. "Now _you're _the murderer."

"L, don't—"

"You're nothing but a hypocrite, are you?"

"Stop it!"

"A hypocrite! You're just a fucking hypocrite!"

(The last time I swore, I was fourteen years old and Watari made me wash my mouth out with soap.)

"Lawliet, please—"

"Don't call me that! Dammit! Don't touch me!"

My hand whirls out in front of me, barely clipping Watari's fingertips as he yanks them away. I stagger backwards, drunk and unbalanced by this violent paroxysm. My screams and the slam of the door behind me echo off the walls of the suite, hopefully lingering in the cushions and the corners and the suitcases for Watari to find later.

I need to get some fresh air, so I shove open the door to the stairwell and run down the entire twelve floors. By the time I reach the main floor, I am breathing laboriously and patting my moist forehead dry, and I am doing a relatively good job of keeping Watari out of my mind.

I float outside the hotel, glowing faintly in the streetlights. The chilly evening air tastes lovely and refreshing, and cools both my flushed face and my tenuous temper. I do not know where I am going, but after several blocks, I spot a strip mall with a swarm of people heartily making their way towards it.

Several feet ahead of me, a couple and their daughter walk down the street, hand in hand. The young girl skips along between her parents, dancing down the grimy sidewalk in chunky sneakers that cover her white tights. A light gauzy skirt peeks out from underneath her bright pink ski jacket and a wobbly halo extends over her fuzzy blonde locks. She is dressed as an angel.

It is really only a coincidence, and on another day I would notice the similarity and move on, but today my mind is fragile and my heart is exposed and I am prone to whims.

She is an angel. I am a ghost. She turns towards the strip mall and I follow her.

In this mass assembly of superheroes and cats and devils and Disney princesses and tired parents, there are some rules that people evidently innately know. Begin at this end, take a bag, fill it with candy, get out of here as fast as you can.

I may be emotionally volatile and deceased, but I am still quirky and have a reputation to hold, so start at the wrong end and leisurely make my way from shop front to shop front.

It's a bit difficult to linger around and observe the curiosity that is Halloween, occasionally accepting a handful of candy from the costumed employees, without looking like a pedophile; thankfully, I seem to succeed, as only three parents pull their children away from me when they get too close.

(Watari told me several years ago that I was free to dress and style my hair as I wished, but only on the condition that I wasn't mistaken for a homeless or mentally unstable person more than three times in a week.)

I arrived at this sugar soup kitchen a bit too late, and by the time I make it to the last few stores, all the candy is gone.

"Sorry!" a young woman in a bumble bee costume apologizes as a child dressed as a firefighter peers sadly at the coupon she is now handing out in place of sweets. "Come back next year!" she encourages, waving at the small groups of families drifting away. Only shoppers are out now, and I stand awkwardly with a pathetically filled bag of candy in hand, waiting at the final store for something to happen, though I don't know what.

The young woman eyes me warily. She clears her throat. "So, what's your costume?" she asks awkwardly, attempting to be polite and make conversation with the strange person of ambiguous age loitering after all the candy is gone.

(She is a relatively attractive woman, and her dress is rather short, but I find myself more interested in the human way she idly attempts to make small talk than in her appearance.)

"I am a ghost," I inform her, sucking idly at a lollipop. "Boo."

"Wow, that's, er, that's great!" she stammers, her brow twisting as she smiles. "You did a good job on your makeup," she attempts to compliment.

This makes me smile. "Yes, I suppose I did." I slouch off without another word.

Perhaps I will attend Halloween festivities more often. I can see the appeal in pretending to be something you're not.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thank you, betas, Scaity and chibi-hime123! Hurrah, for Scaity being resurrected from the dead after being murdered by IB finals, and being able to beta my stuff again! :D_

_Sorry for not updating yesterday! English final essay had to be outlined, and this entire chapter had to be, um, written, and by the time I was done with both, everyone was asleep. D: To make it up, here's a fun Halloweeny fic (well, fun for me, at least; it probably wasn't too fun for L or Wammy) of reasonable length, and an even longer chapter is coming out real soon!_


	14. Twenty One 1

I am twenty one years old the first time I speak with the fourth set of children who will replace me when I die. I suppose it should be a surreal experience, considering that this is entire process is really no more than reincarnation in its strictest, most orderly, least religious form; no, not even that; this is a call to customer service when a previously magnificent computer breaks down, a hurried shipping of a new, hopefully better machine, and the complete trashing of the former one.

(Sometimes I feel guilty for putting Watari in such a terrible light with my depreciating metaphors, portraying him as an uncaring inventor turned guardian, concerned only with supplying the world with a tool for weeding out those labeled as the most inhuman creatures, but are actually some of the most emotion ridden beings on the planet.)

This parenthetical comment aside, the session is no more jarring than the last was, and I observe the group of potential successors calmly through my version of a one way mirror.

(For at the time, I have no idea that these are really the ones who will replace me, I really am going to die, I am, I truly am, and in less than half a decade, _half _a decade, not even a full decade, just in case it hasn't quite sunk in yet.)

Their formation is not an unfamiliar one; there are three layers:

First are the eager ones who idolize me in the way one idolizes a celebrity. They are always the most inquisitive, and while I patiently answer each and every one of their questions, I rule them all out at once.

In the middle are the quiet ones who are intelligent, as everyone in Wammy's house is, but in a placid, lazy way that leaves them not _really _trying to be as good as I am. They are near the laptop because they enjoy the aura of excitement and newness, so they too get bumped down the list because being L is too lonely and they will lose every bit of sanity they have left.

The ones in the back are the ones I pay attention to. They do not try to join this swarming, babbling mass, but instead learn from them in the way that a scientist learns from his experiments. They pledge, whether consciously or unconsciously, do their best to be the best, always the best, in a way that is simultaneously obnoxious and respectable. They rarely ask a question or are in the company of another, preferring to listen discreetly and multitask.

This time, they are two boys, one of whom is a stick-like blonde who stands by the window and gnaws at a bar of chocolate almost viciously, and the other a small, curled up, white mass who lets his hands lazily wander from his hair to his toys and to his hair again. The two couldn't be more different.

The former's entire stance is domineering and driven, his eyes sharp and calculating. They are steady and wandering, dismissive and condemning. With the way he snaps squares of chocolate off deliberately, it is clear that he likes to be in control, and that he holds himself over almost everybody. This adverb is important, as the people who share his lofty cloud also occupy a large portion of his thoughts.

One of these is a redhead in the middle category who stands out because of his unusual attire of enormous goggles and gloves. Aside from this, he is not particularly noteworthy. His intelligence simmers quietly and shines through in the way that he interacts with others; he is friendly and comes across as shy, when in reality he is simply too smart to show his real personality. It is this real personality, which I have not yet been privileged enough to see, that must explain the blonde's fondness for him.

The other is the little pale boy. The blonde is constantly glancing over at him, gauging his reactions—though more often than not, they are indiscernible—and glaring murderously at swiftly completed jigsaws, and every once in a while, becoming grudgingly impressed by the ease with which the Rubik's cubes are solved.

His emotions are volatile, which is an immediate warning signal; L should not have emotions, let alone ones that are volatile. He is a ticking time bomb, and if he explodes, the whole world will be holding their breath to see whether his is the apocalypse or the sun itself.

In conclusion, he would be too dangerous to carry the burden of L.

I turn my attention to the second candidate. He is crouched with his knee pressed to his chest and shoulders hunched in on his thin frame in a way that is eerily reminiscent of myself. He screams invisibility in every which direction, through his choices in attire and posture and reticence. He does not seem to care for the approval of those around him in the way that the tall blonde does, does not even seem to care in the way that a normal _person _does.

He pays me no attention for the half of the discussion, but when he does glance up from his puzzles, his gaze seems to pierce through the lens of the camera and meet mine. I stare back curiously at this pair of black orbs, so like mine, yet utterly different; I quickly decide that the second is the case. They are almost deviously observant, far too much so to be set in such a face; he is a cheater, but I cannot denounce him on this trait without being dubbed a hypocrite.

He is only sharp where it helps him to be so; he is quietly selfish and lethargic and proud. He is a flickering flame that is entirely too dependent on the weather: in the case of a rainfall, he will die out; if it is arid and dry, he will burn out of control.

In conclusion, he would be too dangerous to carry the burden of L.

Then I blink, and realize that I have stumbled upon the embodiments of Ying and Yang. One black on the outside and white within, the other the first's perfect complement. Two puzzle pieces that match on every single edge. The two sides of a Möbius strip. Whatever metaphor I feel like using is irrelevant; what is important is that I never considered that L could be two people.

The question and answer session lasts but another half hour, and when I have wrapped up, Watari notices my small victorious smile before I do. "Have you made a decision already?" he asks, not sounding surprised as much as curious.

I nod and begin sifting through the pile of manila folders at my desk. "The two boys in the back," I answer warmly. For a moment, I almost feel a faint plucking at my heartstrings, but such a thing is preposterous and I am certainly mistaken; I must be careful not to confuse excitement in their potential for affection.

"Ah, Near and Mello." Watari nods. "I'd expected as much. Have you determined their order yet?"

"There is no order" is my correction. "I would like them to work together as L." I find Near's (Nate River's) file first and begin scanning over his records.

"Together?" Watari sounds as astonished as if I'd suggested that the children take part in a battle to the death for my role. He shakes his head slowly. "I understand how you could be mislead to think that they will offset each other, but I assure you that once you observe them interacting, you will change your mind."

Mello's (Mihael Keehl's) file comes soon after. "I most certainly will not change my mind." I am perfectly aware that I come across as a petulant and stubborn child.

Watari knows me better than to push me on the subject, what with my nature that rather resembles quicksand, but he still attempts to put in a bit of advice before completely abandoning ship. "If you'll at least be open to the possibility of—"

"I've made my decision."

He sighs, a weary, fake sound that makes me look up sharply; it is, after all, common knowledge that I am a suicidal cat. "You're an adult now, so I will trust that you have good reasoning behind all your choices."

I know what Watari is doing. This is manipulation, manipulation without any ill intentions, but manipulation all the same. We both know that impeccable judgment isn't something I have recently acquired, but he sounds as if he is insinuating that if I do not explain myself, I will be no better than a foolish adolescent. I know what he is doing, but I fall for the trap all the same.

"They may act it, but I doubt that they have any real animosity towards each other," I explain, averting my gaze to papers that I lift gingerly and don't pay a great deal of attention to; a face-to-face meeting will be far more informative than a list of grades ever could be. "Jealousy, or a competitive streak, or perhaps even romantic feelings"—Watari splutters a great deal at this last suggestion, and I pick out something along the lines of "but Near is only nine!" in the jumbled mess—"however whatever it is, I doubt that there is real enmity underneath it all."

Watari appears disgruntled at the insinuation that the boys will grow up to be not only the same person, but also lovers, and leaves me to inspect the files with a sulkily muttered farewell of "I'll return in a few hours." Naturally, I take this to mean "You may roam around the orphanage as you please while I'm gone for the next few hours" and take off barely a minute after him.

Because, of course, unbeknownst to the students at Wammy's House, I was directly above their little playroom the entire time; I enjoy being crafty like that.

I amble downstairs and begin my search for Mello first. "Excuse me," I call softly, padding up behind a girl sketching wildlife from next to a window: Linda. I'd seen her murmur things to Matt several times, which gives me hope that she will know Matt's and, through him, Mello's whereabouts.

Linda jerks, her pencil digging a hard line into the paper, but seems to relax when she sees me. It is a rather refreshing reaction, considering the general public's tendency to become only more set on edge when they take in my unusual appearance. This is one of the reasons I feel comfortable at Wammy's; it is the only place where oddity is the norm.

"Would you happen to know where I could find Mello?" I question, slipping my hands into my pockets.

"Umm," She scrubs at the offending mark with a nub of an eraser, "probably in Matt's room. Matt just got a new game for his Game Boy," she says by way of explanation with a little shrug.

She flicks eraser shavings off her paper, then turns and looks at me more closely. "You're too old to be an orphan," she notes a bit suspiciously. "Do you work here?"

I smile faintly. "Something like that. Thank you for the information." I wave politely and slouch off towards he boys' dormitories.

Even if I hadn't known the number for Matt's (Mail Jeevas') bedroom, it wouldn't have been difficult to locate.

"_Grahh!" _echoes the battle cry through the partially open door of this aforementioned room.

I place a hand on the doorframe and peer through the gap, and watch as Mello launches himself at Matt's back while the latter holds his electronic device to the sky in one gloved hand. They remain upright for one impressive second, but then Matt's knees buckle and they tumble to the floor with a tremendous thump, proceeding to wrestle and spew an extraordinary amount of curses for only being eleven years old.

Though the boys are around the same height, Mello is considerably thinner and Matt quickly pins his thrashing form to the ground. "If you broke my Game Boy, I swear to God, Mel, I'll–"

This rather amusingly ominous threat breaks off suddenly as its speaker jerks his head towards the entrance and cocks it to the side curiously. Massive, unblinking bug eyes stare back at me. "Hello," he greets, making Mello pause mid-kick and swivel his head around as best as he can to size up and possibly intimidate the intruder.

Considering that it is I who is the intruder, this second reflexive action doesn't take effect. Instead, Mello wiggles out from under his suddenly calm assailant, then scrambles to his feet and quickly yanks his long fingers through his shoulder length hair. "What is it?" he drawls, placing his hands on his hips, the pale skin contrasting sharply with the low slung black fabric. The pinpoints of his pupils sweep across my body like the red dots of laser sights before settling critically on my own. "Are you a teacher?"

I don't smile at him the way I did at Linda, but instead am careful to keep my expression blank. I know that nothing like a smile could earn his trust; he wouldn't have been one of my successors if it did.

"May I come in?" I inquire, not bothering to respond to his question; if he is as intelligent as I suspect, he will determine my true identity soon enough.

Mello begins to give me the evil eye, his fierceness shining through the endearing slipping of his top off one of his skinny shoulders, but Matt immediately nullifies this expression with his chirped acquiescence of "Sure!"

Mello's jaw drops at this astonishing act of treachery from his best friend, and he whips his head around to stare in a picture perfect expression of incredulity. "_What_?" he hisses, but is ignored.

Matt happily crawls to the other side of the room and retrieves his battered Game Boy, grinning when he sees that not only is it still operational, but the game has not been turned off. "It's called Super Mario Brothers Deluxe. I saved up for weeks and weeks and Roger finally let me buy it. It came in the mail last night," he chatters happily as I slip inside and seat myself on the floor next to him, drawing my knees to my chest and leaning against the side of the bed contentedly.

"Roger put it in the playroom's storage closet, because he said I had to get a good night's rest for the meeting with L." Here his voice lowers and he glances up at me slyly through the colored plastic of his goggles. "But I couldn't wait, so I picked the lock to the closet and played it for two whole–_ow_!" Mello's sharp elbow has connected with his ribs. "What was that for?!"

"Get us in trouble, why don't you?" Mello whispers loudly into Matt's ear, nearly pressing his mouth to his erythrismal locks. "You tell him and he'll tell Roger and Roger'll tell Wammy, so _shut up_!"

Matt scoffs. "_He_ won't tell." He doesn't even try to keep his response quiet. "Right?" Matt looks up at me knowingly and grins. I am so surprised that my lips part in a ghost of a gasp. Has this child, who I hadn't even considered naming one of my successors, already deduced who I am?

Seeing my reaction, he seems to become even more confident in his assumption. "_I won't tell anyone_." His whispering skills are far superior to Mello's, and his incensed friend strikes up a protest as if on cue—"What did you say to him? Tell me! I'm your best friend! _And_ I'm older!"—but Matt simply ignores him and begins to show me how to control the animated plumber on the screen.

The silent treatment doesn't appear effective on Mello at first, and I start wonder whether Matt knows his friend as well as he seems to, but then, slowly, it begins to work. Mello sulks and grumbles for no more than minute before he realizes that I have fully captivated his redheaded companion, and that moping several feet off will not in any way recapture his attention. Not only that, but if the way he sidles up to me is any indication, he also astoundingly seems to have realized the same thing that Matt has. I decide that I will later ask them what gave me away, both to deter a security breach and to get a glimpse into the workings of their minds.

But for now, I have someone else to visit.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thanks, betas, Scaity and chibi-hime123!!_

_Oh man. Long chapter. L's visit to Wammy's will be continued in chapter 15._

_It's late and I still haven't finished studying for my Calculus final, or preparing my Halloween costume for school tomorrow, so I'd better keep this short and sweet._

_Love you all, love your reviews, thank you for staying with me thus far, and goodnight. :D_


	15. Twenty One 2

Today is the first time I formally meet both my clones. While I am searching for one, I have the great misfortune of running into the other.

I am ambling around an empty section of the orphanage, looking for nooks and crannies in which Near would likely be residing, places secluded enough not to be disturbed, yet frequented enough that his dead body would be found within a matter of hours. I imagine that Near would have taken this possibility into account, as I did when I was even younger than him.

I am already thinking about murder and cadaveric spasms and rigor mortis, so when a young man appears at the opposite end of the corridor wearing dark clothing and looking half-dead, my pulse jumps spasmodically in momentary terror.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" He smiles, giving a light chuckle, and it infuses my blood with a frostiness that chatters down my spine. "What, don't you recognize me, L?"

I observe him for a second longer, and then it clicks with a violent twist of my stomach. Tousled jet black hair, hunched back, lidded eyes underscored with bruises, dark tee shirt, ratty jeans, bare feet: the ghost of my seventeen year old self. Beyond Birthday.

"Hello, B," I greet, stiffly polite. "What a pleasure to see you again."

Beyond grins. "The pleasure's mine."

"I must say, I wasn't expecting to see you here," I note, drifting further into the middle of the hall where we are more visible to passersby; I am slightly unnerved by the prospect of being alone with Beyond in a seemingly deserted area of the building. "I thought you left the orphanage several months ago."

He shrugs smugly, mouth twisting into something resembling a smirk. "Yes, I suppose I did. But I couldn't miss out on a chance to see you, now could I?"

"How kind," I remark flatly, swallowing a mild suspicion at being stalked.

Beyond giggles, a practiced, rehearsed sound. "Why thank you, Lawli-pop."

My heart forgets to beat, then picks up double-time to make up for the lapse. "Don't call me that," I snap.

"Aw." He pouts comically, slumping even further. "Why not?"

"How did you learn my name?" I demand, horrified.

His gaze drifts upward to stare at empty space, and I can only guess that he is trying to remember how he garnered this information. "I'm smart, L, you know that," he says by way of explanation. "That's why I'm your successor." He gives a proud little smile, tucking his chin and looking up at me through his eyelashes, and it would be endearing if it wasn't so downright frightening.

"No, you're not."

And in a fraction of a second, his expression changes. His lips press into a hard line, whitening lividly, and his eyes tighten into slits. With furiously curled fists and an indignantly straightened back, he hisses, "_What?"_

I do not take a step backwards, even though every nerve in my leg is screaming for me to do so, because I know that this would only enrage him further. "I'm sorry, B," I murmur, "but you've already been told that you're not eligible to succeed me any longer."

"I thought you would change your mind!" he rages. "How could you not? You know I'm the only one who can replace you. I _am _you." Suddenly, I understand how Matt and Mello discerned my identity; Beyond is a walking security breach.

"I apologize if this is hard to hear, but my decision is final."

Beyond looks as if he wants to punch me, but he settles for grabbing me by the neck of my shirt. "No, it's not."

This has more than crossed the line, but Watari would be upset if I injured Beyond, so I look steadily into his eyes and warn, "Release me this instant, or I will have to use bodily force."

"I _will _be the next L."

His teeth are gritted and his eyes are practically spinning in their sockets. One would have to be stark mad to oppose such a face. Luckily, I am.

"No."

He blinks away the shock for several moments, then pulls away and shakes his head slowly, startlingly calm. "You're going to die soon, and then you're going to regret this."

"Your faith in my longevity is astonishing," I deadpan.

This seems to delight him. He laughs almost maniacally, eyes focused on the air above my head again. "Of course," he simpers, and I shudder.

"I have to be going," I inform him, stepping away. "I'm on my way to meet with Roger." This actually isn't a lie, because I have just decided that I cannot risk looking for Near on my own and stumbling into Beyond again. "Goodbye, for now, B."

And to my displeasure, but not to my surprise, he volunteers to accompany me. I allow him to, as I expect that Watari will be with Roger, and he will be able to get Beyond off my back far more effectively.

As we begin making our way through the orphanage, Beyond is as cheerful and pleasant as any teenager could hope to be. I begin comparing him to someone who is bipolar, but this poor boy really has so many reasons behind his mental instability and such an aversion to discussing it that I am out of my league in attempting to diagnose him.

He first asks about what I've been doing as of late, but I am persistently reticent, so he soon gives up and begins prattling about the books he's been reading. Prattling, however, may be too light of a word, as the authors he enjoys include Stephen King, Thomas Harris, and Kurt Vonnegut. "So it goes," he giggles, and I marvel at how completely we have lost this child.

We have nearly reached Roger's office without incident when a gaggle of three nine year old girls come racing down the hall, squealing and laughing as two boys come chasing after them. The only indication that they don't belong in your average public school is the way they resemble pack mules with their heavy knapsacks pinned tightly to their hunched backs. It is rather refreshing to see that some of the children that enter Wammy's house will leave it as intelligent, reasonably normal teenagers instead of twisted mini-adults with nothing but death on their minds.

Beyond seems to think otherwise.

When they have passed, he stops and points sharply to their retreating forms. "_Those _are the kinds of inane little children you are having replace you," he pronounces, sounding disgusted by the prospect. "I would be so much better than them!"

"Those children are not the ones I will choose as my successors," I point out, a bit miffed at his comparing Mello and Near to them.

"Whoever you choose, they will never measure up to A and me."

"That is not for you to decide." I resume walking, leaving Beyond several feet behind me.

"We were the first. We were the best," he insists petulantly, hurrying to catch up with me.

"A is dead."

"Which leaves me as the best."

"We are not having this discussion again."

Beyond slumps like a kicked puppy, but I don't let my guard down because I know that as loud as his bark may be, his bite is even worse.

I rap twice at Roger's door, but don't wait for him to respond before letting myself in. Sure enough, Watari is sitting on the opposite side of his desk, slumped in the chair with his head resting in his hand. He does not appear to be in a very good mood, which is unfortunate for him, as Beyond's materialization is not the best pick-me-upper.

"Afternoon," I greet with a nod.

Roger looks pleasantly surprised. "L," he says with a smile. "It's been a—" He breaks off with a choke as Beyond emerges from behind me, grinning. My eyes narrow slightly in annoyance at his theatrics. "B," Roger practically gasps. "What are you doing here?"

"Good afternoon, Roger," he chirps brightly. "Good afternoon, Quillsh." Watari frowns. "It's nice to see you all again."

I've had quite enough of Beyond's obnoxious sucking up. "Roger, I'd like to speak with you alone, if you don't mind," I interrupt.

"Er, of course," he stammers, glancing a bit frantically at Watari.

"We can finish speaking this evening," Watari proposes, then pulls himself a bit creakily out of his chair and smiles thinly at Beyond, looking like he tastes something sour. "Shall we take a walk?"

Beyond grins back cheerfully as if he has been greeted by an enthusiastic hug and a platter of cookies. "That would be wonderful." They depart at once, the door swinging shut behind them.

With Beyond out of my sight, I feel the stress immediately drain out of my shoulders and I allow myself to focus on the task at hand: finding Near.

I settle myself into an empty chair and crouch with my arms folded across my knees. "How have you been, Roger?" I ask, more to be polite and friendly than anything, because Roger still looks like he's seen a ghost.

He clears his throat, pushes at his glasses, then folds his hands in front of him. "As well as I can be with Quillsh having abandoned me here," he replies with a tired smile.

"You're running the orphanage well," I compliment. "Would you be able to tell me where I could find Near?"

"He was in the library this morning," Roger recalls, frowning at the memory. "I nearly had to drag him out of there to get him to attend your meeting. Stubborn child," he mutters rather bitterly. I smile; it's good to hear that Near has some life in him after all.

"He's been constructing some sort of miniature city right up against the bookshelf with the books on entomology. He says he's chosen that location because it's dark, but for the light coming through the window, and nobody ever goes there, however I suspect that it's also to spite me."

"People are always doing things to spite those around them, consciously or not."

"I suppose so," he concedes. His gaze drifts to the door that Watari and Beyond left through. "Do you think that B acts the way he does to spite us? To spite you?"

"No. Not when he was younger, at least," I speculate. "Perhaps now he does, though, now that he knows for sure that he will never take my place as L, and now that he's become an irrational teenager."

Roger smiles. "You speak as if you weren't an irrational teenager not too long ago."

"I wasn't. I was blessed with an unusually developed frontal cortex."

Roger chuckles at that, a bit sadly. "He'll be fine though, won't he?" he asks worriedly. "There's nothing terribly _wrong _with him, right? I mean, I don't hold any particular affection for him," he informs me gruffly, the concern in his voice embarrassing him, I assume. "It's just that I don't want another suicide on my hands."

I absolutely cannot promise Roger that Beyond is alright, especially because I'm quite certain that he is anything but alright, but I've known Roger since I was a toddler, and I know better than to leave for another country where I could be killed with a bad memory between us, so I don't mention B at all. "A was a very special case," I say instead.

This seems to reassure Roger. "Of course," he nods with a weak smile. "A was very special. Which reminds me..." His eyes light up and he smiles rather slyly as he begins rummaging through one of his larger desk drawers. "This was A's favorite," he recalls, handing me a small, gleaming robot. "I can think of no one better to have it than you."

I examine the toy with my head tilted to the side, delicately holding it in front of me by the shoulders. "You had quite the affinity for robots when you were a child," he adds fondly.

"Yes, I did, didn't I?" I murmur, wondering if I am anthropomorphizing it to say that it rather resembles Near. "Thank you," I say gratefully, returning my attention to Roger. "I quite appreciate it."

"You're welcome."

"I suppose I should go visit Near now," I excuse myself, rising.

"Of course. Take care of yourself."

"I'll do my best."

As I make my way to the library, I bring the robot with me. It will do Near some good to have one of the same role models as me.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thanks to chibi-hime123 for editing this!_

_Yay for relatively long chapters! :D_

_I skipped over L visiting Near because I already wrote their first meeting this summer for Near's birthday (and because I still have two essays to write and one final to study for by Thursday D:). If anyone wants to check it out, it's titled Robotics. Enjoy!_


	16. Twenty Two 1

I am twenty two years old the first time I fully understand why the Three Laws of Robotics were implemented. I haven't read the series of short stories in years, but the series of suspicious slaughtering in Los Angeles reminds me of the ongoing battle between Asimov's robots and their creators.

_1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. _

_2. A robot must obey any orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. _

_3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law._

Beyond Birthday is on the loose, and he has already broken the first two laws; I fear that the third will soon crumble under his mania as well.

* * *

_Author's Note: Shortest chapter yet. O.O_

_Three Laws of Robotics belong to Isaac Asimov._


	17. Twenty Two 2

The next week, I am painfully aware of the state of my mental health for the first time.

I wake up tasting crimson: sharp and metallic, icy and inescapable. I rinse my mouth with enough water to hydrate an entire village in a third world country. Still, it hides in the crevasses between my teeth, in the gorge under my tongue, dripping from the roof of my mouth like stalactites, and I nearly gag at the sensation that I am drowning in my own blood.

I drink tea continuously, doubling the amount of sugar cubes with every cup. _2, 4, 8, 16…_ By the time I drop the eighty third, the substance in front of me is unidentifiable as tea. I pause, lick the crystalline granules from my fingertips, and then push the cup away and simply eat the next forty five to make it a round one hundred and twenty eight.

Watari is horrified when he sees that the sugar jar is nearly empty. The past few weeks have been hard on him, and I know that he is guilty for what he has pushed B to do, so I don't put up a fuss when he wants to talk to me in his office.

He scolds me thoroughly, launching into a lecture on the importance of my longevity. He warns that I will gain weight, that my deductive abilities will worsen, that premature death will become a greater and greater threat, but I have heard it all before, and amuse myself by fiddling with my toes under the lip of the desk where Watari will not see.

Seven minutes and fifty two seconds later, Watari sighs, leaning back in his chair and waving one hand dismissively while shielding his eyes with the other. I briefly wonder if he's noticed that I've been counting in base negative ten rather than feeling ashamed for eating too much sugar, but Watari suddenly looks very old, and the frightening feeling of asphyxiation is returning, so instead of asking, I pull myself out of my chair, sneak into the kitchen, and eat half a bag of marshmallows.

By the end of the day, I can't taste anything at all; I feel a sick sense of accomplishment as I fall asleep that night.

But then it all goes away the next morning when I can taste nothing but ash and gasoline and smoke and suicide.

I wonder how long it takes for a machine to go clinically insane.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thank yous to chibi-hime123 for betaing this, as well as the last chapter. _

_Another short chapter. Yep. _

_All but 7 people in my class got sick this weekend, including me, which is why these are so dreadfully late. It's not even October anymore. Oh dear. I have made a new significant deadline for this fic: November 5! This date is even more fitting, so it makes me reasonably happy. :D_


	18. Twenty Four 1

I am twenty four the first time I have a real investigative team.

"Ten percent…no, five percent."

My new investigation team explodes in choked gasps of varied pitches. The sound annoys me vaguely, as my suspicions would never be doubted so verbally by Watari, but I quickly quell this aggravation before it can turn into anything larger that could potentially interfere with the investigation, and turn away from their angry faces. I wonder vaguely if I should explain how I have come to this conclusion.

When emotion based data is included, the probability rises closer to 45%. But I am not a human; I am a machine, and machines do not include emotion based data. However, they are not machines; they are emotional humans who would cause unnecessary trouble with their effervescent reactions, so I do not tell them this.

They feud for several moments, Aizawa and Matsuda causing a ruckus about unsuspecting women being filmed as they go about the more revealing aspects of their daily routines. But eventually, Yagami furiously silences them, whirls away, and after a charged silence, they exchange ashamed apologies. People are such capricious creatures.

As I take a seat on the couch, I remember Watari's suggestion that Yagami and I be the only ones to participate in the surveillance of the chief's household. I mention this, hoping it will get rid of all the bothersome feelings whirling through the air and making me uncomfortable, and while Yagami continues to stare at the curtains to collect himself, Aizawa and Matsuda thankfully appear relieved.

After all, Yagami should have little embarrassment observing his own family, and I am only a machine.


	19. Twenty Four 2

The next day, I see Yagami Light for the first time. He walks into his house and slips off his shoes, cool, collected, well-dressed. Not a gleaming lock of hair is out of place, and those that are have been arranged that way on purpose. This teenager appears so utterly perfect that I find myself watching him intently, leaning forward in my chair, gripping my knees tighter, and thinking of Stephen Byerley. _Robot_, my childish side concludes.

He steps onto the staircase and as slowly as thawing ice cube, his carefully friendly smile melts off of his face and his gleaming, chatoyant eyes morph into something unfathomably solemn. As strange as the comparison is, I am suddenly reminded of every instance that I look into the mirror. But then his gaze gravitates towards his bedroom door and his expression makes me taste blood.

I glance at the middle aged Yagami, who is watching his son with a smile that etches pride into his wrinkles. I glance back at the young man who is now reaching for his doorknob, and wonder for the first time if Kira is not a god, but a robot.

* * *

_Author's Note: Stephen Byerley belongs to Isaac Asimov._


	20. Twenty Four 3

This year is first time I forget that July 4th is a holiday. Though I have no particular celebratory sentiments regarding the United States gaining independence, I do have fond memories of Watari flying a younger me across the pond in a private jet to see the fireworks, and of an older pair of us routinely sharing red, white, and blue frosting covered cake in honor of the event.

But this year we are in Japan, and in the middle of a quite difficult and important case, and sharing our building with several policemen for whom another country's patriotic holiday is just about the last thing on their minds. And this year I do not hear my stomach crying out for food coloring and confectioner's sugar, as my gut is much louder, and is a worthy contender for my attention, as hard as I am trying, yet failing, to silence it.

Machines don't rely on their gut. I am a machine and machines, especially detective machines, _cannot_ rely on their hunches, even if their hunches are as large as the one in my back.

But this is one hunch that is impossible for any sane (or even insane) person (or even non-person) to ignore. It is a hunch that has morphed into a mound into a knoll into a hill into all 8,848 meters of Mount Everest. It is probable that this particular hunch-mountain has a peak that surpasses even the aforementioned one; perhaps it would be 9,150 meters tall for the 91.5 percent certainty that _something _has changed. I idly wonder whether Watari will consider it a security risk if I name it Mount Lawliet.

Light's weary voice drags me out of the sluggish and frivolous musings that I customarily engage in when I am craving sweets (I'll have to contact Watari soon, I note, but it is only later that I attribute this hankering to my lack of Fourth of July cake), as he repeats the question that is without fail asked daily (give or take a few hours, of course, taking into account his lack of awareness of time): "Has Kira resumed killing?"

I analyze his eyes through the camera, unfocused and drooping, innocent and aggrieved. I don't answer immediately, so bewildered by his gaze (not calculating, not plotting, simply questioning), so aggravated by the nagging sensation that this isn't really Yagami Light (clone, robot, cyborg, insane, what is he? I haven't slept in four days from wondering), so frustrated that I am one straw (or one especially enraged shout from Soichiro, or one particularly inane comment from Matsuda, or one too open glance from Light) away from storming into the prison cell myself and personally interrogating him as meticulously and forcefully as need be until he confesses what in the world he has done to baffle me so thoroughly.

My index finger trembles momentarily as I reach for the speaker to Light's cell, but I scold and steady it before pressing the button. "No, he has not," I lie and I can feel disapproving eyes on my back: Aizawa's, Matsuda's, Mogi's, Light's—no; I'm dangerously exhausted and sugar deprived and nearly delusional and there is no way Light is skulking behind me, no matter how realistic the breath on the back of my neck feels. I scratch the prickles away, and fluff the dark strands into a proper shield; there is a reason I leave my hair so long, after all.

I return my attention to the screen burning an angel face with golden eyes and amber hair into my retinas. "Is Yagami-kun ready to confess?" I question. I already know the answer, but I still ask because I feel absolutely useless and thick and worthless and incompetent and thwarted and idiotic and pathetic for not being able to deduce what has happened when it is _right there_ in front of my eyes nearly 24/7.

Light drops his head to his knees, his bangs draping greasily and perfectly across the worn fabric of his pants, not even bothering to pretend that he has heard me, and somehow this hurts most of all. I lean back in my chair and glance at the date in the corner of my computer screen. It informs me that Light hasn't seen sunlight in 33 days; perhaps one more day will break him.

Sometimes I find that it is at my most apathetic that I act the most human.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thanks to chibi-hime123 for betaing this chapter, and the two before it, even though she's still sick and has many finals related things to do. Get better soon, darling, kay?_

_It makes me happy to think that Quillsh and L were celebrating with festive cake when I was being born. :D_

_Everyone be sure to wear black tomorrow for L! Chibi-hime123 and I certainly will. _


	21. Twenty Four 4

My confinement with Yagami Light has just begun when I realize that I have begun expressing my thoughts like a machine.

It is a shocking difference from my former method of rationalization. Certainly, at times I have conveyed the probability of something occurring with a number, but as of late, I continually express the rationale for my actions with percentages. More often than not, these percentages regard the probability of Light being Kira, and the actions I am rationalizing are my forced attachment of him to my wrist.

I suspect that I am overcompensating for my recent lapse in actual mechanical thoughts; the true logic behind Light's imprisonment isn't logic at all, but emotion driven certainty. To be perfectly honest, it is humiliating that I am being plagued by this intuition.

I am _de_-anthropomorphizing myself, am becoming something of an automaton. I do nothing all day but stare at massive amounts of Kira related data and consume sugar and win at Solitaire and drag a still shell-shocked teenager around on the other end of a six foot chain; if not for this aforementioned teenager's company, I truly think the boredom would drive me to insanity. Punctuating this mind-numbing monotony are my jabs at Light, deprecating remarks about his alleged innocence and disparaging jabs at his homicide fetish.

"Light-kun," I call one afternoon when hacking into the FBI has proved to reveal no new leads and I am lacking the motivation to delve into any deeper files. "I seem to have run out of food. Let's go to the kitchen."

"Ryuzaki," he sighs, glaring at me in irritation. "We just went there an hour ago."

I blink innocently. "Yes, that is correct, Light-kun. What are you implying?"

"How do you expect us to get any work done if we are constantly interrupted by your visits to the kitchen?"

"I find them refreshing."

"Well, _I _find them bothersome and counterproductive."

I drop my clueless façade in favor of a suspicious and calculating countenance. "I am tempted to raise my suspicion of your guilt by four percent." There is absolutely no significance to this number, other than perhaps its aptness considering its connotation of death.

Light doesn't seem to realize that this is a random percentage. "What?!" he exclaims furiously. "Why?"

"Because," I explain flatly, "it would be very like Kira to slowly starve me of vital sugars and decrease my deductive reasoning abilities in order to stop his secrets from being found out."

Light appears torn between frantically spluttering his incredulity and hitting me over the head with his laptop. Though both would be intensely amusing reactions, he disappoints, and does nothing but narrow his eyes and snap, "I'm not Kira. Let's get your damned cake."

I smile in delight at his irritation. "Yay," I exult passively and begin making my way towards the kitchen.

Light hurries out of his seat to avoid the embarrassment of being dragged out of it, and falls into step several feet away from me, huffing a bit in annoyance. I wonder if it is telling that this is the highlight of my day.

"I have a hankering for strawberry mochi ice cream, actually," I inform him cheerfully, pulling open the freezer door and peering inside.

"Hm."

"Would you like some as well, Light-kun?"

"No, thank you," he refuses moodily.

I cannot miss the opportunity. I tilt my head to the side and place my thumb at my mouth, feigning consideration. "Would Kira prefer the green tea variety?"

"I'm not Kira!" he thunders quite gratifyingly.

I shrug. "I guess not then." Then, as an afterthought, I add, "Sixteen percent."

"_What?" _he demands.

I smile quietly, placing several spheres of mochi on a plate and licking the powdered sugar off my fingertips. I'd never realized that it could be so amusing to be a machine.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thanks to chibi-hime123 for her betaing skills!_

_Strawberry mochi ice cream is really quite good. I encourage you all to try some. :D_

_Oh man. We're almost at a hundred reviews. You guys are fabulous. --bear hug--_


	22. Twenty Four 5

_Yaoi alert. :D_

* * *

The end of July is the first time I truly feel like a human.

Yagami Light points it out before I realize it. We have just entered the kitchen for a midnight snack, gathering tea and donuts for me and coffee for Light.

"Hmm."

"What?"

"I see that you've picked a red mug. Do you like that color?"

"It's a fine color."

"As expected of Kira."

"_What?_"

"It is the color of blood, after all."

"Why you–"

The coffee machine dings and as Light is pouring it into a mug, I place a sugar cube on my tongue, then lean over as he is replacing the coffee pot, and add one cream to Light's coffee before pushing it towards him. The young man would look insultingly astonished if I was sensitive to such trivial matters. However, to me, he simply looks uncommonly surprised that I have remembered how he likes his coffee.

When he voices his surprise, quite unnecessarily, considering how obvious it is in his expression, I respond with a brief, "It was nothing." It truly was nothing. After observing him through cameras, both of the legal and illegal sort, for months, and living with him for five days straight, it is only expected that I would know what to add to his coffee.

"Thank you, anyways." I shrug off his gratitude uncomfortably and we walk back to our office.

"You know, Ryuzaki," he begins as he takes a seat, "you're more human than people give you credit for."

I have been licking the frosting off a donut, but his observation makes me pause. Somber and pensive, I note that I truly am failing at everything in life, from catching Kira to putting human fragilities behind me.

"You seem offended," Light remarks, steam from his hot beverage wafting into his face.

I lick the chocolate off my lips, and then respond frankly, "That was quite possibly the gravest insult you could have uttered."

He laughs and it is the laugh of a crazed animal that has been pressed into a corner. The sound surprises me, and I turn to watch him set his mug carefully and deliberately down. "I know." His golden eyes seem to take on that aforementioned mineral's solidity. "But it's a shame really."

I don't ask him to elaborate, as his voice has taken on an unnervingly emotional element, and he most likely will without any prompting, as well as because there is something rattling around in my chest that is making me want to vomit, and if I speak, I most certainly will.

As predicted, Light's long fingers curl into fists, and he continues tremulously. The handcuffs clink their anticipation. "You know just as well as I do that you have feelings. You're no less human than I am."

I don't like this new side of Light. He is far too vocal, yet just as brilliantly observant as the old Light, which is a terrifying combination. I huddle my knees closer to my chin. "You are quite mistaken if you're under the impression that this is helping in any way."

Light continues as if I haven't spoken. "If you could only grow up and acknowledge it, you could be the greatest detective the world has ever seen."

This stings. "I _am _the greatest detective the world has ever seen."

"You could even catch Kira."

My gut tightens, the verbal blow causing me physical pain. This insolent _boy _is taunting me, taunting the greatest detective in history, dangling Kira on a string in front of me, as if he can actually give me Kira, as if he isn't Kira himself, as if we both aren't already aware of his psychotic, murdering alter ego. I ought to ignore him and evade having to give him the satisfaction of getting under my armor-plated skin. "You're one to talk" is right on the tip of my tongue, acidic and incriminating, but something stops me, makes me triple check my conclusion regarding his motives.

I am quite skilled at reading people, even if my admittedly blatant disregard of social decorum doesn't show it. There is a look that Light used to wear whenever he won at tennis or some other sort of competitive game, whenever he criticized my food or clothing or hygienic choices, whenever he saw raving Kira supporters on the television.

This look is absent, and has been absent for so long that I am beginning to question whether it was ever there. At the moment, Light's eyes don't even look capable of giving anyone such a look, let alone me. They are shifting in every which direction, widened past the iris, so unbearably open and defenseless that I cannot believe they are attached to the rest of his body. I have always known that his incarceration and near death experience would considerably alter his character, but such a full shift is nearly impossible. To prepare, I read entire textbooks on such subjects before and following the events of last week, and in no way could they have prepared me for such a thorough character change. How is it possible that no one else has noticed?

My internal dialogue is brought to a tearing halt by Light's hands descending on my shoulders, firm and demanding. His expression is twisted with a frustration that is so completely uncharacteristic of Yagami Light that I find myself seriously considering the possibility that he has been replaced by some sort of clone or robot. But then his face draws close to mine, horribly, painfully close, and I squirm closer to the back of the chair and raise my shoulders to my ears.

"Yagami-kun," I murmur reproachfully, intently studying the thinning fabric at my knees, uneager to meet such an emotional gaze. My fingers begin trembling; the pressure concentrated on my shoulders is unbearable.

His grip tightens and when he speaks again, his voice is dangerously low. "We're back to last names, are we?" His mouth hovers near my ear and my leg tenses, yearning to lash out. Everything is so close, so hot, so horrible, so close, so awful, so close…

"Why?" he continues so venomously that I can almost feel the word _drip, drip, drip _onto my shirt. "Because I showed emotion? Because I'm human? Are humans not good enough for the almighty L?"

"Yagami-kun," I repeat softly, my voice shaking along with my limbs. "You're too close. Please let go."

His breath audibly catches in his throat. "I'll give you close, you _robot_," he hisses.

The word makes something inside me skip with joy, impossible delight that someone has _finally_ noticed what I've been aiming for all these years, the sheer happiness that comes with success after such a long time of seemingly endless trial and error. This is victory, true and tangible, creating such buoyancy that the entire world seems to float away. Even Light's grip on my shoulders seems lighter, and his body less claustrophobically close. I lift my gaze and smile, my first true smile in what has to be weeks.

It is only then that I realize what a mistake I've made.

The reason Light seems farther is not because of my skewed perception of reality; he really has pulled away. Even this action I cannot rationalize in the first moment. Another moment passes as I see his eyes, really see them for the first time, blazing with such a beautiful determination that he almost hurts to look at. Then the third moment rolls around, and I am too late to stop what is coming.

Light's mouth rams hard into mine, and I gasp, never in a thousand years having seen this coming. He shamelessly takes advantage of my open mouth, and I can't for the life of me determine an appropriate reaction. Everything is happening so quickly, so unexpectedly, so impossibly, and Light is so close, burning so hotly that I can see it through my closed eyelids. I want to kick him in the face, to send him crashing across the room and hurt him as badly as he is hurting me, but then I taste chocolate and ink and fire and blood and go limp in his arms.

He pulls away at that moment, more flushed and breathing more heavily than he ever has kissing Misa or reading pornographic magazines. I am similarly thrown, pulses of alternating cold, as cold as metal or death, and hot, as hot as electricity or hell, throbbing through my limbs.

"Light-kun," I whisper, my lips so numb that I can barely feel the words. "It's late. You should prepare for bed."

He doesn't move for a moment, then blinks, nods wordlessly, and we make our way just as silently up to our bedroom, where I set up a laptop at the entrance to the bathroom, and Light trails the chain under the door before shutting it.

Once the water is pounding sufficiently loudly in the shower, I shift programs and tap at the keyboard. An unnecessarily stylized W appears on the screen. "Watari," I greet quietly and in English. "I have no doubt that you observed the scene that has just occurred. I would like to hear your thoughts on means for a counter attack."

For the first time in quite a while, Watari does not answer my request. "Watari," I repeat, and then "_Watari_," again, a little more firmly. I am quite certain that he has not left his desk, as my guardian is most certainly astute enough to realize that I would want to speak with him after such an event. I find myself thinking of heart attacks, Kira, and Yagami Light supposedly bathing.

"Watari." My voice has taken on the quality I have heard the elderly gentleman himself use when he is particularly frustrated with me. "If you do not answer, I will be forced to assume that Kira has murdered you and to arrest Yagami Light while he is showering."

There is a single moment of answering silence. "You know what they say when you assume."

I do know, and find the saying exceptionally applicable, considering the circumstances, but I do not wish to discuss my deductive shortcomings at the moment. "What are your thoughts on the situation?"

The speakers hiss for another moment, also seeming to find Watari's unusual and untimely reticence rather vexing. I am about to repeat the question when he replies. "It would do you some good to puzzle this one out on your own."

I am genuinely astonished. "This is not a game," I say sharply. "The fate of the world hinges on whether or not I find Kira, and my inability to act appropriately could destroy any hope of succeeding."

"That's quite a magnanimous statement," Watari observes blandly.

I ignore this. "It is absolutely imperative that you give me your advice." My volume is growing unchecked, so I inhale deeply and wet my lips, the latter of which is quite a bad idea, considering the taste still associated with them.

"You want my advice?" Watari is audibly losing his temper. "Follow your gut, and suppress all instincts to be perfectly logical. Fighting feeling with logic will get you nowhere."

All that I have learned from this conversation is that he does not want me to be perfectly logical, but his reasoning for this is quite opaque, and I haven't received any help determining a course of action.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," I admit rather grudgingly after several seconds.

"Then I can't help you."

I haven't become truly angry at Watari for quite some time now, and I want this record to continue, so I bite back the acerbic retort threatening to bubble up, and jab at the key that will end our conversation.

I sift through top secret government files with my blood boiling for three minutes before I realize that I have never felt more alive in my entire life.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thank you chibi-hime123!_

_Oh man. First kiss. :D_


	23. Twenty Four 6

A week later, I wonder for the first time whether machines are capable of having hearts.

Three days before this occasion, I am ambushed a second time. The incident occurs in the kitchen, of all places, amongst my angel food cake and cherries and chocolate filled donuts; it is sacrilege, more so than if it had occurred in a church. It is also one of the most terrifying things I have experienced in my life.

This time I am pinned against the counter by a Yagami Light that I have never encountered before, one that is filled with as much energy as one with his namesake would be expected to contain. With fingers tangling in my hair and a more passionate embrace than I've ever encountered, I almost kiss him back.

However, when this urge is realized, my hands limp against his chest turn feral, tearing at his shirt with the ferocity of a rabid feline, and I bite down hard on his tongue. Light swears, jerking backwards until his back rams into the marble top of the island, eliciting another curse. The handcuff digs into my wrist, slicing into my veins and muscles with the ruthlessness of the blade of a guillotine, and my other thumb reaches up to wipe a bead of saliva from my lip.

Scowling, the infuriated young man in front of me sticks out his tongue and runs his teeth along it, feeling for significant damage. I am torn between hoping that he will find something, vengeance thundering with my heartbeat, and that he is unharmed. This latter desire is driven mainly by the difficulty in explaining the injury to the rest of the investigative team. _"Ah, you see, Yagami-san," _I can imagine myself explaining, _"your son sexually assaulted me in the kitchen last night, so I was forced to bite his invading tongue. I'm sure you understand."_

As for the other sensation stirring in my gut, I quickly quell all emotion, fighting it with logic, just as Watari had advised me to refrain from doing.

"What was that?" I inquire bluntly, careful to keep my tone clipped as I slip my hands into my loose jean pockets.

Light folds his arms over his chest, yanking the chain again, and notes acridly, "I hadn't realized quite how naïve you were."

This is a ridiculous answer, but really should have been expected of a mere teenager. Eighteen is still practically a child; what had I been thinking even considering for a moment responding to his advances?

"I need not remind you that I am several years your senior. However, I won't assume that a little thing like that would even make a dent in Kira's pretension."

"I'm _not _Kira, for God's sake!" he snaps, then looks sharply away, a scowl once again marring his expression, and angrily begins to leave the kitchen. The metal cuff digs into my much abused wrist, and I slouch after his retreating form. A few moments later, I realize that I have abandoned my cheesecake on the counter, a rather horrifying and uncharacteristic case of absentmindedness, but I don't have the heart to ask that we turn around to retrieve my dessert. I can only hope that Watari will bring it to me once Light has fallen asleep.

But then I remember that Watari has most likely witnessed and recorded this entire event, and blanch at the prospect; it feels like I am discarding all the effort the put into raising me by even considering throwing myself at Light. Unlike the previous time, I do not contact Watari regarding the matter, nor does he contact me. I am unsure whether to be grateful or disappointed.

The next day, Light has a stiff, reluctant date with Misa, and I succeed in involuntarily stealing the spotlight with a climactic fight with him. It is violent and graceful and clashing and harmonious and infuriating and thrilling all at the same time. By the end, both our shirts are fisted in each other's hands; our eyes meet and I am half convinced that he would have torn it completely off if not for Matsuda's interruption.

I hang up the phone with a clatter, feigning boredom and annoyance and lethargy when I am actually excited and pleased and buzzing. Kissing is far too confusing, but I wouldn't mind if I was able to fight with Light every single day.

After nine days and nights, the evening of the two week anniversary of our first kiss rolls around. We are situated on opposite sides of the bed, as usual, with me and my laptop on the right and he on the left, but suddenly our California king seems smaller than a twin. The chain between us creates a nearly palpable connection, stinging and biting and releasing sparks into my bloodstream. I haven't slept in over three days and the screen is swimming and my eyelids are so, so heavy, but how can I possibly allow myself to rest when a criminal is in my bed, electrocuting me every several seconds?

Suddenly, Light starts, giving me an especially large jolt and creating nearly thunderous noises in the near perfect silence of the night. He yanks at the chain twice, making me wince slightly against my pillow, and urgently whispers, "Ryuzaki." I hesitate, briefly debating whether to feign unconsciousness, and then hum my acknowledgement. "I've thought of something pertaining to the Kira case."

This, of course, grabs my attention, as my attention has been centered on nothing but the Kira case for the past several months—all musings regarding Light, of course, fall into this category—and I quickly spin myself around to face him, letting my laptop slide off my knees to the bottom of the bed. It tips over, lands upside down, and closes, extinguishing the only light source. The room becomes darker than pitch, a substance in which I suddenly feel as if I am drowning.

I pull my knees tighter to my chest and hunch into them, which immediately rectifies my respiratory issues. However, Light seems to have also been having breathing difficulties, as he is also leaning against the pillows in a sitting position. My wiggling toes bump into his side and he inhales sharply.

"Sorry," I apologize quickly, curling my toes in towards me.

"It's alright." He sounds winded, which is a bit perplexing; his revelation regarding the Kira case must have been quite exciting indeed. "I was thinking about my confinement and Kira's reasoning behind framing me for the first two weeks, and it seems quite probable that—"

"You are incorrect," I tiredly resolve at once, and start to turn away. It is rather aggravating that Light has disturbed me to discuss such a thoroughly beaten subject. We are both perfectly aware of Light's homicidal tendencies and god complex; it is so utterly obvious that it is nearly disgusting.

"I haven't even told you yet!" he protests, outraged and nearly shouting as he grabs my shoulder.

I stiffen and my heart palpitates excitedly; I mentally shush it. "You don't need to."

"And why?" he demands.

Light still hasn't let go of my shoulder, and, if anything his grip has tightened, so I indirectly answer his question in order to redirect my stress. "I would advise that you discontinue any attempts to find loopholes in my conclusions. They will get you nowhere. If you still aren't, you indubitably were Kira."

"You can't keep holding onto your infantile prejudices like this." The bed creaks as he rises furiously.

"I most certainly can," I deadpan.

His fingernails and the edge of his handcuff are digging into my skin, and I can feel his muscles tensing preparatorily. A punch is coming, and my nose is still sore from his last series of attacks, so I retaliate in the first way I can think of.

I whirl around and kiss him. My aim is off and I land off to the right on his bottom lip, but the tactic is still sufficiently effective. He freezes and his previously clenched jaw loosens, a small gasp of surprise whispering from his throat.

I'd meant for it to only be a distraction, a way for me to escape his hold and maybe even get into a position that would place him a at proper distance from my heel. His kisses had been quite debilitating, and my hope was that I could have at least a fraction of this influence. You know what they say: be careful what you wish for.

There are three seconds of stunned still and silence, and then chaos ensues.

My first thought is that it's no wonder Light is so popular among his female peers; even I can see that he is quite an adept kisser.

There is a pause in my seldom stationary train of thought, as I am far too preoccupied with responding to Light's eager mouth and hands as enthusiastically as I can to bother wasting time and energy with coherent musings. His fingers deftly slip under my loose white shirt and mine into the collar of his soft flannel one, and I suddenly realize why teen pregnancy is such an epidemic; this is _fun_, comparable even to fighting and eating chocolate drizzled sugar cubes.

He suddenly shoves me down onto the bed, making me fall into a cloud of pillows with a soft _puff _and the laptop tumble to the ground in a much louder _clatter. _"Sorry," he murmurs, not sounding sorry at all, and proceeds down to my neck, nipping in such a way that I can't determine the ratio of antagonism to passion. He sucks at the bite marks and as I imagine the blood vessels breaking under his ministrations, all I can smell is the rusty fragrance of blood and all I can taste is its ringing flavor. That's when the earth shattering recognition hits.

I am kissing Yagami Light. I am kissing _Kira_. _L_ is kissing Kira.

I cannot breathe. My lungs are filled with crimson and my nasal cavities are clotting and my tonsils are coated in scarlet and the weight of a thousand corpses is crushing my chest. It is horrible and disgusting and all I want is for it to stop, but somewhere in the crevasses between all this is a rejuvenating and invigorating explosion of emotion and a realization that this is the first time I'm letting myself just _feel_.

This is too much for one night. The prospect of continuing or even furthering our actions, of being more than L and Kira, of being less than L and Kira, of being no more than Lawliet and Light, or even of being just a nameless man and his bedmate, is terrifying and exciting and shocking and intoxicating and sickening and soothing. I am recoiling away from the idea of having all these feelings, of a _machine _having all these emotions, as I am now having to remind myself far too often that that is all I truly am, and away from Light's touch as well.

Light doesn't seem to understand that I am pulling away at first, and it is not until I hiss his name accompanied by a jab of my knees that he gets off me.

"Ryuzaki?" He is bewildered and nervous and breathless and disappointed and horny and everything I am daring to experience as well.

I gulp in air, fumbling my way to my proper side of the bed, where I belong. What am I doing? How could I have thrown away logic so flagrantly and idiotically and dangerously? When I was a child, Watari would have deprived me of cake as punishment if I'd made such an enormous mistake in one of his mock cases.

This reminds me of the infrared cameras and microphones imbedded in the room. But I don't even have time to feel the mortification of conversing of Watari tomorrow, as first I have to take care of the problem that has manifested at this point in time and taken the form of a questioning Yagami Light shifting his weight towards me.

"We'll discuss this in the morning." Dreadfully enough, my voice has somehow lost its usual cool detachedness and has replaced it with a considerably less desirable wavering anxiety with an undertone of horror.

"What?"

"Your hypothesis regarding Kira. We'll discuss it in the morning. Goodnight Light-kun."

"_What_?"

I don't bother responding to this interjection of incredulity at my admittedly harsh dismissal, and he doesn't bother waiting for me to. I flip around and dip away to swipe up my laptop, then scoot into my respective position, facing the wall several feet away from him. After a moment, Light does the same, albeit with a far more furious rustling of the sheets than me.

There is no possibility of my sleeping tonight.

I am not particularly fond of modern artists or over commercialized pop songs or even music, really, but a song I heard on a brief trip to America last year springs into my mind. This is slow dancing in a burning room, truly.

The metaphor pleases me and gratifies my deeply buried poetic nature in a sick sort of way. I quietly hum the only line I remember as I look up the lyrics, but then my breath catches and my laptop nearly goes slipping out of my grasp again as I realize that it is, indeed, a love song; I can't help but wonder if it is possible that I am feeling the other sensations mentioned as well.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thanks chibi-hime123!_

_John Mayer owns Slow Dancing In A Burning Room. It's quite a nice song. I encourage you to look it up._

_I was rewatching the Lion King this evening, and I realized how perfectly the whole Scar killing Mufasa scene matched the Light killing L scene. D: It was quite poignant._


	24. Twenty Four 7

I have been alive for nearly a quarter of a century before I fall in love for the first time.

The morning of this epiphany begins with a rather less revolutionary, but still notable, discovery; I have a hickey. In the restroom, I sulkily examine the unforgiving pink splotch on my left collarbone, wonder if I'll be able to look up how long such an affliction lasts without a member of the investigative team noticing, then return to the bedroom and sift through the pearly sea of shirts in my dresser for one with an inconspicuously high neck.

Unfortunately, my search is not conducted as swiftly as I had hoped and as Light impatiently hovers nearby, he catches sight of the blotch at my neck; his flustered double-take is almost worth the trouble.

"Is-is that a—?" He turns a shade of pink I have never seen on him and seems unable to complete his question.

"A hickey?" I finish and am unexpectedly delighted by his discomfited expression. "I believe so."

His eyes seem to be frozen in their sockets as they stare in mild horror at my collarbone. It's been quite a while since I've seen Light to at a loss for words; I impulsively decide that my goal in life from now on will be to make Light speechless as many times as possible.

"Oops," he murmurs, and I very nearly laugh. "How are you planning on…?" Again, he trails off awkwardly, but the gist of his inquiry is clear enough.

Smirking, I hold up a shirt with an appropriate neckline. "Contrary to popular belief, all my shirts are not identical," I inform him and he appears relieved. I gather up my clothes and announce that I am going to change now, all the while smiling considerably more than I ever do before my morning tea and cake.

The investigative team joins us just about an hour later and no one seems to notice my change in apparel or unusual blemish—except for Watari, of course, who notices everything, but he is far too courteous to dream of calling me out on it in public—though with the way Light will not stop staring at my neck, I wouldn't be surprised if someone did.

So we work relatively undisturbed through the day, fueled by coffee and sugar and desperation and the knowledge that the real Kira is sitting less than six feet away, and the sun sweeps across the sky and sinks under the horizon, and one by one, the others leave to rejoin their families, or fall asleep in a pile of paperwork and are half dragged up to their bedrooms.

It is the same schedule as every other day, surprises and miracles and disappointments stretched far apart with their gaps filled by monotony, but as PM turns to AM and today turns into tomorrow, I find myself yearning for the excitement that comes with being alone with Light.

It is nearly three in the morning, and the data on my computer screen is failing to be intriguing enough to hold my interest, so I allow my gaze to become unfocused, and create new data in my head:

Probability that Yagami Light used to be Kira: 70%

Probability that Yagami Light used to be Kira when emotion based data is included: 98%

Probability that Yagami Light is still Kira: 15%

Probability that Yagami Light is still Kira when emotion based data is included: incalculable

Probability that L Lawliet is in love with Yagami Light: something dangerously higher

These first four percentages have been lurking in the back of my mind for quite some time now, the digits shifting and hovering and flipping and converting into numbers able to be voiced, but this last one comes as a surprise. Watari has never informed me that falling love with suspects was part of L's job description, which is vaguely annoying, as there is still a small part of me that is surprised whenever Watari isn't omniscient.

The last of these four used to be a number: a constantly shifting one, but a number rather than a word nonetheless. It comes to me as no surprise that after last night, I cannot label this situation with a percentage, or even remember what I'd come up with once upon a time when I hadn't known what Yagami Light tastes like (spearmint mouthwash and bitter coffee and undying hope and sparks from an outlet, I note parenthetically, just in case anyone is wondering) or what Kira tastes like (unspilt blood and cauterized hearts and childish retribution and a freshly ironed pair of trousers, I note a bit less parenthetically, just in case I've forgotten the difference between the two).

I glance over at Light's form, uncharacteristically hunched towards the keyboard and bathed in white light, and, in the dark and emptiness of the night, allow myself to admire the highlighted lines of his shoulders, collarbones, chin, nose, cheekbones, lashes, brows, then daringly his lips.

Another thought occurs to me, quite unexpectedly, as I'd been under the misconception that I'd let this train of thought derail: what if Watari _had _warned me, if _anyone _had warned me? If I'd known how much trouble this boy would give me, would I do it all over again?

Light notices that I am watching him, and his eyes flick up to meet mine, exhaustion becoming interest as he realizes the intensity of my gaze. "Ryuzaki?" he prompts curiously.

I should hate him. I should be fed up with his immaturity and megalomania, with his mocking smirks and holier-than-thou smiles, with his faux perfection and popularity, with his lies and promiscuity. But, somehow, inexplicably I'm not.

"Ryuzaki?" he repeats, seeming a bit concerned now.

Is his concern genuine? It certainly seems to be, but how can I trust him when he continues to claim that he isn't Kira? I can't, but in a way, that's part of the appeal. The puzzle, the challenge, the knowledge that however long I am with him, I will never grow bored of our conversations or tired of his personality. There will always be something new, yet familiar, and wholly Light.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing is wrong." In fact, somehow, everything is right.

He doesn't seem convinced, but still shrugs with a roll of his shoulders and stifles a yawn against the back of his hand; it is nearly half past three.

I find myself buzzing, flitting through two boxes of Hello Panda and one of Pocky and all the sugar cubes at my desk until I am out of food. I cannot hold still and my continual shifting in my seat rattles our handcuffs, the links composing a sonata seemingly of their own volition.

It is almost frightening, this constant movement. I should be able to stop it, to control it, but the impatience is bubbling and scalding my insides and stoking the fire. I dare a glance at Light—only to ensure that he is not passing out or dying or maniacally laughing as he mercilessly slaughters criminals, I sniff at myself—and feel as though I am about to implode and explode and remain perfectly still all at the same time.

Light yawns, a long, languished, barely concealable yawn, and I almost feel insulted that he is so at ease when I am reduced to a vibrating mess. Pandora's Box has been opened and all my pent up emotions are flooding out, though I can't for the life of me determine who Pandora is in this metaphor.

I stand up, but without noticing that a message has been conveyed from my head to the bottom half of my body. "Shall we retire for the night?" and the words are another evil screaming out of the cursed container.

Light folds his arms over his chest. "Are you sure you're alright?" he ascertains, rightfully doubtful; it is almost always he who forcefully requests that he be permitted to rest.

I begin ambling towards the exit. "It would be just like Kira to protest this," I mutter, not because I really think so, but because I know that if I rile Light up enough, he will follow me.

He sighs behind me and continues typing. "I don't even want to hear your reasoning on that one."

This exhausted refusal effectively stops me in my tracks. Light isn't _allowed _to not want to hear my accusations. I am perfectly aware how possessive and irrational this belief is, but it is so unbearably agitating and I can barely move from the sheer insolence of it and _how is this child having such an effect on me!? _

I force the lid of Pandora's box shut, hope be damned, and I turn the unintentional pause into a planned movement by slowly whirling around to face him. "How incriminating," I muse, cocking my head to the side in a parody of innocence and relaxing my vocal chords in one of ease. "You don't even bother to deny it."

"Quite incriminating, I'm sure," he sighs, amber eyes flicking across the monitor as he finishes up, then he leans back in his chair and spins towards me. "If you're tired we can go up now," he allows, standing up.

"Alright," I agree listlessly because he's coming with me and that was the entire point to the taunt.

We are climbing the staircase in silence when I feel a spark in my right hand; I rub at my palm absently, but it comes again, this time with a buzzing. The third time, it doesn't go away. I'm rather annoyed with the vibrating of the links, mostly because I'm perfectly aware that it's all a figment of my imagination, and am so preoccupied with cursing handcuffs and metal and electricity and Light and Kira and myself that I continue up another flight of absently.

"Ryuzaki," Light calls after me, tugging at the chain. "This is our floor."

"I know," I surprise myself my informing him cagily.

There is a slight resistance on the other end of the chain, a small noise of surprise, then the patter of feet and a "Where are we going?" This is an exceptionally good question, and it takes me a few seconds to realize the answer, but when I do, I gulp and wonder if the stress has gotten to me and turned me suicidal.

After three flights, I open the door to a stuffy, rarely used floor and we turn corners into hallways that I have never shown him before. Light isn't speaking anymore, blindly trusting that I have a logical motive behind this, just as I am blindly trusting that my emotions won't be my Achilles heel and that this isn't the worst decision of my life.

We finally reach our destination, and all I can do for the first few seconds is stare at the doorknob. Light sighs softly and tries one last time. "Ryuzaki?" he asks halfheartedly and I can hear "You're absolutely insane. Where the hell are you taking me?" between his breaths.

In answer, I take his hand, firm and cool and slender and the only one I want to hold for the rest of my life, and revel in his sharp inhale of surprise and pull him into the room, locking the door behind me.

He looks quite startled at first and his eyes flash across the six faces of the room in search of another exit that isn't there. Instead, what he finds is a nondescript arrangement of two couches and an armchair, a coffee table, a rug, several lamps, and most importantly, no cameras or microphones.

This is new to me and if I'm being brutally honest with myself, I'm possibly the most terrified I've been in my entire life, but when I draw close to Light and slowly straighten my abused vertebrae until we are the same height and whisper, "We're alone," and watch the gears clicking in his mind and smile and see the eagerness in his eyes, I'm absolutely sure that this was the right decision.

I'm not the slightest bit certain who moves first, but that's not as important as what I _am _certain of when we meet in a tangle of mouths and arms and links and _finally_s:

Probability that L Lawliet is in love with Yagami Light: 100%

* * *

_Author's Note: Thanks chibi-hime123!_

_Oh man. 100 reviews. Thank you guys SO MUCH for all your support! :D --massive sandwich hug--_

_The last chapter will be posted tomorrow. I'm gonna miss writing this. D:_


	25. Twenty Five

_Author's Note: BIG thank you Scaity and chibi-hime123 for all your help with this fic. Love you both!_

_Sorry this is so late! I wanted it to be posted on November 5, but then I didn't get around to writing it, and then I was busy working on my high school applications and recovering from my sickness and kwahhhhh. Everything just kind of exploded. :P_

_So here we go! Posted today in honor of Ukita's birthday. Yep. Happy birthday Ukita! :D_

* * *

I am twenty five years old when I realize that even machines die. My birthday has come and gone, and now I cannot help but feel that my death day is imminent. I hear Beyond's voice in my head.

"_You're going to die soon, and then you're going to regret this."_

Will I regret this?

"_Your faith in my longevity is astonishing."_

Of course I will. I've regretted being with Light ever since I decided that I would. I saw it coming all along. It was _my _faith in my longevity that was astonishing. Did I really think that Light would never become Kira? That he would stay around forever, the two of us becoming the classic old bickering couple, complete with rocking chairs and crossword puzzles?

"_Of course."_

No. I was the fool.

Light is gone. He is with his father, playing the part of the dutiful son when I know that there is nothing in his head but the role of Kira, the misguided savior, my killer. _My_ Kira.

I try Watari first, go to him like I haven't done since I was a small child living at Wammy's. He turns around slowly when I open the door, wise and all-knowing and quiet. "What's the matter, Ryuzaki?"

I am not Ryuzaki right now; I am Lawliet, vulnerable and dying, so I remain silent. He starts when he realizes this, and turns closer to me. He realizes what I have realized, that I am going to die, that it will be Kira—Light—who will kill me, and that I have allowed this to happen. "What will you do?"

I cannot do anything. This is my punishment. I will not run away. All I can do now is apologize.

* * *

I am questioning Rem, but it is useless. There is nothing I can learn from her. It is amazing that Light was even able to function as Kira with such a reticent shinigami to rely on.

What is more amazing, however, is that I can function as L with Light skulking several feet behind me. I call out to him by his last name—we are not alone, we are not lovers, we are colleagues, we are enemies—and politely observe that he has his freedom, but refrains from utilizing it to see his family or his girlfriend. "You should take her out on a date, you know," I mock. You are Kira now. We cannot be together anymore. Yet nothing can change between us, for that would be as good as an admission from you. What a pickle you're in.

He uses the Kira investigation as an excuse, pretending to have some sort of conscience that wouldn't allow him to leave it unfinished. "Or are you saying that my presence here is bothersome to you?" he asks, as if surprised by the concept of me finding him unsettling, of me finding my lover turned murderer unsettling.

Something icy stabs me in the gut, twisting and twisting. _"You're going to die soon."_

"No," I murmur, the ice spreading to my throat and numbing my tongue. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, watch as the staircase warps his appearance, his eyes off center and glowing red, a Picasso horror come to life. Beyond stares out at me. "_You're going to regret this."_

* * *

It is raining, even more heavily than the day I was brought to Wammy's. Over the rush of the deluge, I hear the bells. Church bells toll heavily, drifting through the raindrops and penetrating the walls of the building and the security system to haunt me. I have fallen for the devil. The price for this sin is death.

I drift out onto the roof of the building to hear the bells more clearly. They remind me of childhood, of the simplicity of my desire to become a machine. I breathe in the scent of the fresh rain, oblivious to my drenched state, and wonder if it will rain in the afterlife.

Light is watching me. Without even looking, I can feel the daggers of his gaze. I wait for him to leave, but he remains under the shelter of the overhanging, staring. I gently loll my head in his direction. He calls out to me, but I cannot hear him. The bells are too loud. I cup my hand to my ear.

"What are you doing in a place like this, Ryuzaki?" he shouts, bringing his hand to his mouth to help the sound carry. I can hear him just fine, but I want to have a little fun with him before dying, so I smile and repeat the gesture.

He blinks in irritation, perfectly aware of my little game, but comes out to meet me regardless. "What are you doing, Ryuzaki?"

"Nothing in particular," I mutter darkly. "It's just the bells…"

"Bells?"

Has he not been paying attention to them? "Yes, the bells are really loud today."

He listens for a moment doubtfully, then pronounces, "I don't hear anything."

A little optimistic part of me vaguely wonders if this is because I am going to heaven, and he is not. Then I regain my logic and consider discarding this notion of the afterlife completely, as this new shinigami thing must have some theological implications.

"Is that right?" I murmur. "The conditions are favorable today, so you can't help but hear them." I am alluding quite directly to my death being today, just to spite him. "It's a church," I say surely. "Maybe a wedding?" That would be quite fitting, considering that it will be my lover who will kill me. Or perhaps the gods wouldn't consider our relationship as worthy of a wedding, as twisted and convoluted as it is. "Or—" I begin to muse, but Light cuts me off.

"What are you talking about, Ryuzaki?" he demands brusquely. "Don't say such useless things." I cannot tell whether all this talk of me dying is making him uncomfortable and guilty, or if he simply thinks I have finally gone insane. "Let's go back."

We can never go back. We cannot go back to being coworkers, and we cannot go back to being lovers, and we cannot even go back to being mortal enemies. I have ruined this all. It's only logical that I should die.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

"Let's go back. We're soaking wet."

Soaked in water, in tears, in blood, in lies, in all those lovely metaphorical items. At least we're soaked together, for now. Once I die, we won't be connected like this.

Till death do us part.

* * *

I cannot stand this any longer, cannot stand not being able to touch him. Even mussed by the rain and hours away from taking my life, I find myself walking down the stairs to sit at his feet.

"What are you doing, Ryuzaki?" he exclaims, starting as I take his bare feet in my towel and my hands.

"I thought I'd give you a hand," I inform him, and I am talking about more than drying him off. He has won. I will die, but at least I will die happily. He will not succeed in taking away my love for him. It is some consolation that at least I will have complete victory in that.

I wipe his feet, and he dabs at my bangs, and I realize that he truly has no idea that I'm aware of my own death.

* * *

"I'm sad," I tell him.

"Huh?"

"_I'm going to die soon, and then you're going to regret this."_

"You'll understand soon."

He simply stares, jaw slack in surprise, and for a brief moment, Light, not Kira, is looking back at me.

And then my cell phone goes off, and reality snaps us into shape as a rubber band. Kira returns to Light's eyes, and I must continue being L.

* * *

There is a blackout. "_Of course."_

This is fitting, almost cliché, and I prepare myself to be struck down as the building has by Kira's lightning bolt.

But then, I hear a strange, choking sound coming from Watari's end. Has he realized that I am about to die? "Watari," I say quietly, soothingly. I'm ready.

But then the screens blank out, and I realize what is happening. "Watari!" I exclaim more frantically as _All data deletion _is seared into my retinas and I realize that Kira has killed him, that Light has killed him, that _I_ have killed him, and that this is the most ironic death that could possibly occur to me.

Someone is muttering about the screens, and I mechanically inform them of what is going on, waiting for the shock to set in, as I know it will in a matter of seconds. They continue muttering about this unexpected event, and then I feel the shock, rippling through my bloodstream, tearing at my inside, and I gasp, "The shinigami," when I really mean, "Kira."

I have to tell them who is really at fault here. I have to tell them that the shinigami was a pawn in Kira's game, and that Kira is Light. Death has made me a coward, a caitiff, a backstabber, a traitor, and I have to tell them the truth before I die.

Frantically, I gasp out, "Everyone, the shinigami—"

* * *

Everything has stopped.

A second becomes a year, but I cannot finish my sentence even in that amount of time.

Light's gaze on my back has also changed. Desperate and ready and hopeful and _Yes yes yes finally! _has turned to distraught and reluctant and horrified and _No no no stop!_

It is somewhat flattering, and somewhat relieving, and quite gratifying all around.

But then the world is spinning and my spoon is slipping and I am tipping, even though I should have perfect balance after sitting like this for so long.

The floor is so far away and so close and so bright and looks rather painful to fall onto, and it's rushing closer and closer and clo—

And then Light is there, crashing to the ground under me, battling climactically with Kira for control.

Matsuda is yelling, but Light's eyes are burning louder, and I never realized that this whole event would be quite so painful.

My heart actually seems to be ripping in two. It's actually nice that I get to experience heart break once before I die, even if it's a whole lot less nice that Light actually did it, he actually allowed Kira to kill me, and now he is holding me in his arms and looking like he wishes he could take it all back.

"_I'm dying, and now you regret this."_

You're a bit late.

"_Of course_."

The bells are ringing, louder than Matsuda's cries, louder than Light's silent screams, louder than Kira's maniacal laughter, and everything is so bright and searing and Technicolor and real and how is this possible how can this be so vivid how can I be so alive when I am dying?

Light almost looks like he is going to cry, but then he is smiling, he is smirking, Kira blazing through his irises like the fires of hell itself and as I close my eyes, I find myself not mourning my demise, but Light's.

Light's glowing, inhuman eyes have transformed into white spots of light, and then this light fills my entire vision, and Light fills my entire vision, and if I had more energy I would smile.

My eyes are so heavy, as heavy as if I haven't slept in a hundred years, and I feel them dragging closed, sealing out everything but that bright white Light.

Perhaps God would allow to bring Light with me to heaven, and to leave Kira to terrorize the world.

It would be selfish, but I'm allowed to be selfish and human when I'm dying, even if it's taken me far too long to realize that I'm a human after all.

* * *

I am twenty five years old when I realize that I am not a machine.


End file.
